


M.I.A. Remastered

by BlazeRiddle



Series: M.I.A. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Descriptions of murder, Fem!Sherrinford, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, non-Sherlock-centric, written before S4 so it ignores it completely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>M.I.A. - Missing In Action</b>
</p><p>A casualty classification assigned to combatants, military chaplains, combat medics, and prisoners of war who are reported missing during wartime or ceasefire. They may have been killed, become prisoners of war, wounded, or deserted. If deceased, neither their remains nor grave has been positively identified.</p><p>
  <i>After six years, the game has changed. Some players, however, are still the same...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part one: returning

**Author's Note:**

> All right... so my last attempt at this was literally called "the LAST revise", but something about that kept bugging me, so I decided to revise it, again. I think this is attempt four? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!  
> For any questions or prompts or ideas, feel free to leave a comment, go to my [Tumblr askbox](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) or swish by my [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/blazeriddle) to leave a message!

**September 2009**

"No."

Sherlock glared at the other three people in the room from where he was sullenly curled up in the armchair. The office they'd set up was temporary, but very luxurious, and had a very impressive oak desk. It was, according to the young detective, the only way to lure Mycroft's fat arse in: make it believe it had power. Speaking of his brother...

"Mycroft! You cannot let her do this! This is-"

"It's out of my hands, brother dear." Mycroft tried to soothe. "Sadly, the decision is hers."

"But she'll get herself killed!"

"I'll be fine." The third person, a woman smaller than any of the others by ten inches, spoke up, moving to stand in front of Sherlock. "I'll be back before you realise I was gone. Doe will get me out before anything can happen."

"But-"

"Sherlock." The woman sounded stern, now. "I'm not telling you so you can stop me. I'm telling you so you won't come looking." She sighed. "I have to do this. If _I_ don't, no one will, and this is important. You _do_ get that, right?"

Sherlock nodded, frowning. "I do. Of course I do. But what is the chance of you coming back?"

She swallowed and straightened, her face blanching. "De deterioration period is roughly six months." She admitted, "But I've lived past those lines before, and I won't be in longer than a month. Get in, get out, take everyone down with me when I go."

Sherlock still didn't look satisfied. "What is it goes wrong?"

She smiled sadly at him and kneeled, pulling him with her. "Promise me something." She whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. He frowned.

"Promise me you'll try your best to stay alive and I'll do the same. No matter what happens, Lock, no matter how long it takes, I will always try to come back to you. All right?"

Sherlock swallowed, nodding. "All right."

"Good." She straightened. "Okay, you two. No killing each other when I'm gone." She glanced at Mycroft. "Look after each other. I'll be back soon."

/~\\*/~\

**January 2016**

It was a cold and dreary day, about as cold and dreary as central London got, and with it came a strange sense of tranquillity as no one wanted to brave the depressing weather unless they absolutely had to. The flat in Baker Street was veiled in a comfortable silence as both men inside stared intently at their laptops. It was nearly a week after the whole ordeal on the tarmac, after the strange goodbye and return, after the so-called return of Moriarty, and most of all, after Sherlock's last relapse. Ever since then, John had barely left his friend out of his sight, keeping a close eye on him with the excuse of helping with the Moriarty mystery, and now they were both following up on some leads while Mary was off to the doctor's for a check-up.

John stood and stretched with a groan. "Tea?" Sherlock answered with an inarticulate mumble, but at this point, the detective had been awake for days and anything that wasn't 'no' was to be taken as an affirmative, so the doctor moved past the window to the street to the kitchen.

As he glanced outside, the figure ambling back and forth at the front steps caught his attention. Due to the rain, he couldn't quite make out who it was, but it was obvious they were a client wondering if they should ring the bell. What was it again Sherlock always said? Nervous, doubting if they should... personal problem. He shrugged, knowing the detective wouldn't take clients now.

"Client." He reported anyway, moving through to the kitchen. "Seems like a personal issue."

Sherlock hummed. "We're not taking clients."

"I know." John switched on the water boiler. "What should I tell them?"

"We're not taking clients." Sherlock took a moment to glance at his friend, eyebrow raised.  John smirked at him.

"Point made." He pulled down two mugs. "What if they know something, though?"

"They won't." There was a bout of furious typing. "Send them away."

"I will." As the water boiled, he poured it into the mugs, over some teabags. The doorbell rung, finally, and he moved down the stairs as the tea steeped. Before opening the door, he took a deep breath, preparing to disappoint.

The first thing he noticed was the tiny frame. Whomever was standing in front of him was even shorter than he was, and clothed in dark, ratty and baggy clothes, hood pulled deep over their head. Next, as the person looked up, was the pale skin blotted with bruises, the full, strangely familiar cupid bow of the lips, broken and traced with blood, the high cheekbones, and then, those eyes.

Those beautiful, blue-green-gold eyes staring up at him underneath black brows.  John stared at them for a long time, uncomprehending. Then came the rasping voice.

"Is this the house of detective Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah-yes." John frowned as the woman stepped up to the doorstep. "I'm sorry, who-"

"A friend." She pushed him aside, surprisingly forceful but not wholly unkind, before she stumbled up the stairs. She didn't really look steady on her feet, supporting herself on the wall, but she was fast.

"Hey!" John tried to catch up to her. "You can't just-"

The woman burst into the apartment, stopping like a deer in the headlights as she spotted the detective, who was standing in the middle of the room as he wanted to see what the ruckus was about.

The woman exhaled forcefully, and dropped to her knees  in front of him, clutching to the leg of his pyjama  trousers. "Sherlock." The name was like a prayer on her tongue. "Sherlock."

As John watched, Sherlock brought a hand down and ran it through her hair, tipping the hood back to reveal dark, messy curls. The whole action wasn't even half as awkward as John expected his friend giving comfort would be. "Shh." The body under his hand was shaking, and John realised she was crying. "It's okay."

She shook her head, seemingly wiping her nose on his leg. "I'm sorry... so, so sorry-"

"It's okay." The detective repeated, looking down at her with a strange look in his eyes, not quite unlike the look he'd had a week ago. "It's okay, now." The body at his knees slackened, the woman drifting off to unconsciousness. Sherlock held her head, making sure she didn't fall to the side and still rubbing her scalp.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, hesitantly, "What's going on?"

Sherlock looked up at him, seemingly noticing him for the first time since the woman came in, and John could see the tears shining in his red eyes. "This..." He swallowed. "John, meet my little sister, Sherrin." He swallowed again, looking down at her, a sad smile on his face as he studied her.

" _What_?" John asked, suddenly furious and still not quite understanding. "Your _sister?_ " He stepped closer, anger fuelling him. "You have a _sister_ and you didn't _mention_?" He felt about as betrayed as when Sherlock had walked back into his life. They were friends, they'd known each other for years, had once been very close and were getting there again, John thought... and now this? Never, in the years they'd known each other, had the detective ever care to mention something along the lines of _hey, just letting you know, but I have a sister_ or _just a head's up, Mycroft's not the only sibling_. He would have understood if he hadn't wanted him to meet her, after all, he'd done his very best himself not to let Sherlock come in touch with Harry, but at least Sherlock knew Harry _existed_.

"Why didn't you _tell me_?!" He was nearly yelling, and Sherlock glared down to the body at his feet.

"Not now." He kneeled down to examine his sister and let out a hiss at what he saw before scooping her up in his arms. She looked extremely small and fragile, and at the sight, John's doctor's heart gave a throb despite the anger. With quick strides the detective brought the woman to his bedroom, and John followed. "No!" He exclaimed, glaring at his friend's back. "You can't procrastinate this and then in the end never talk about is like-" He cut himself off. _Like your death_ , he'd wanted to say, but he figured the time frame to talk about that was gone.

Sherlock mostly ignored him as he placed the woman on his bed and tucked her in with his sheets before feeling her forehead and carefully running the tips of his fingers over the bruises decorating her face and neck. Then, he dipped his fingers past the collar of her shirt and before John could protest or cry out in shock, he pulled out a ball chain with two dog tags on them. Lifting her head carefully, he slipped them off and studied them, turning them around and around in his hands.

John had had enough. He wasn't going to be ignored _again_ while apparently something major was happening around him, _again_ , especially not when that something involved someone battered and bruised and in clear need of medical assistance. "Sherlock!" He grabbed his friend's shoulder and forcefully turned him around, making him drop the tags. "What the _hell_ is going on here?! _Why didn't you tell me you have a sister?!_ "

" _Because I_ _thought_ _she was dead_!" He yelled back, pushing the doctor off of him, a tear escaping and rolling down his cheek before his emotions were carefully reigned in. The woman on the bed whimpered at the outburst and the detective turned to her just in time to see her eyes flutter open weakly, her mouth letting out a pitiful moan. Sherlock kneeled at her side.

"Sherlock-" She groaned, but managed to blink herself more awake. "I passed out, didn't I?"

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Yes." He scraped his throat. "What-"

"No time." She interrupted. "My body is badly injured and I'm low on sleep and sustenance. About to pass out again, probably." She groaned. "Call Mycroft."

He frowned. "What should I tell him?"

She tried to sit up, but fell back right away. "Bring IV's, bandages, oxy. No doctor. One of those fancy saws that can cut iron, _precisely._ " She winched. "And keep everyone out. Including that yelling doctor."

John frowned at her. "But-!"

"Shut up." She glared at him from her spot, and by doing it, seemed to grow three sizes, especially when she quirked a brow. " _Captain._ " She turned to Sherlock again. "Please. Don't let anyone see me like this. No one but you two."

"Of course." Sherlock stood, ruffling her curls. "You can sleep now. You're safe."

She hummed, closing her eyes again. " _Safe._ " She breathed, letting herself relax a bit. "Yes." She budded into his hand slightly, like a lazy cat, before relaxing into sleep.

Sherlock stood, turning to the doctor with an apologetic look. "It's best if you leave now." He murmured, not wanting to wake his sister. John frowned, still feeling angry for being left out of this. He had a sister, for crying out loud! Realising yelling at the detective with the woman asleep in the room wasn't going to help, he decided to stay calm.

"She needs a doctor." He reasoned. "She passed out, Sherlock, and she's probably heavily malnourished. Not to mention the bruises. Who knows what she's hiding..." For the second time that day, the anger gave out to worry. No matter who she was, whether she had been hidden from him or not, whatever had been going on, that woman was obviously harmed, and she needed help.

"She needs _privacy_." Sherlock said, pleading with the man. " _Please_ , John. I'll explain later. For now, just... leave." He glanced back at the bed and John followed his gaze, his eyes settling on the little presence. "Please, _she needs you_ to leave."

Still staring at the woman, John fought not to let out a self-reproaching huff. _She, at least, can make him beg twice._ It took him less than a second after that sarcastic thought to realise that she meant a lot to the detective. With a single nod, he took the few steps out of the room.

"I'll let myself out."

/~\\*/~\

It only took Mycroft ten minutes after Sherlock had called him to come through the front door, servants following with all the supplies she'd asked for. What seemed like an army of nurses set up in the kitchen while the brothers moved to the bedroom, standing at the closed door.

Mycroft frowned at his brother. "If this is some sort of cruel joke, Sherlock..." He warned, glaring.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not a joke." He assured. "She came in here. John thought she was a client."

"Right." He opened the door, moving into the slightly darker bedroom. "Where _is_ the good doctor, then?"

"She didn't want him here." They moved to the head of the bed, looking down at the pale-skinned figure. "If the marks on her face are any indication, I can get why."

"Yes." Mycroft sighed, taking in the woman before him. He hesitantly reached out, letting his hand hover above her face. "She looks... why did no one pull her out?"

"There were complications." Her voice was soft and rough, but strong as she was blinking up at them. "I'll explain later. For now-" She groaned, wriggling under blankets. "Did you bring a wire cutter or something?"

"Yes." Mycroft frowned. "Why do you need it?"

"Well..." Surprisingly quickly, she flipped away the covers, revealing the ratty clothes. She pulled down the bottoms a bit, uncovering a solid piece of metal wrapped around her hip. "... It was a safety measure. The lock is stuck." She fished it from its baggy confines and showed it. Sherlock immediately kneeled down, looking at it. Mycroft just stared.

"Is that...?" he looked positively horrified. "Is that a..."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mycroft, _it is_. Stop being so prudish and help getting it off of me. Do you have any idea how much this _chafes_?"

He blinked down at her. "I... don't intend to find out." He reached out, but pulled his hand back. "Can you open it , Sherlock?"

"No." He stood. "There's some sort of glue in the keyhole." He left the room, returning quickly after with what looked like bolt cutters, smirking at her. "Do you trust me?"

She frowned at him. "Not at all. Get that thing off of me, you berk."

He fell to his knees with a roll of his eyes. "Yes, _mistress_." With two well-placed _snips_ he freed her, letting the lock fall down to the floor. "There you go. That the only one?"

"Yes." She sighed. "Can you guys help me to the shower?" She was already moving to sit up. "I promise I'll let your people look at me after."

Mycroft grumbled, but helped her sit up and off the bed, the two of them half-carrying her to the bath. Once there, Sherlock wasted no time before ridding her of her clothes, hissing in sympathy at the bruises he uncovered, as Mycroft started the water of the shower. After removing the offending metal from around her hips, Sherlock helped her in, allowing her to sit down as he washed her hair three times, trying not to pay attention to all the grime and blood that came out of the curls. After, he started briskly washing her skin, getting rid of most of the filth, while Mycroft rummaged around a bit and found a clean toothbrush. She had started shivering the moment the first round of shampoo was massaged into her head, and kept struggling, trying clumsily  to help her brother clean the grime off, so Sherlock kept up a steady stream of reassurances throughout, soothing her with the soft rumble of his voice all throughout the cleaning and even when he dried her with one of his fluffy white towels. In the end, he had to carry her back to his bed after Mycroft had given his best effort at cleaning her teeth.

Once in the bed, she just stilled, letting herself be surrounded by the warmth, but Mycroft didn't allow her to fall asleep just yet."Can the nurses come in now?"

She nodded. "Destroy that device." She grumbled, "And let me sleep."

Before the nurses with the oxycodone drips were even through the bedroom door, she was out.

/~\\*/~\

The water around her swished gently as she sat up in the boat. It was murky and dark, stretching around her endlessly, and without touching it she knew it would be as cold as ice. The sloshing against the boat was nearly inaudible over the aching pressure in her ears, like a low tone penetrating her head. There was nothing around her, nothing but the cold water and the abyss below.

Get to land.

The voice whispered through her head, clear as day yet fleeting like the wind, and she knew she had to listen. She had to get to land, or she would die here, in a small boat in the endless ocean. She started peddling with her hands, rocking the boat and creating waves in the water, but she had no idea if she moved forward or not. Everything around her was water, deep and murky. The entire world was water. It didn't matter, though, she had to get to land.

Her boat bumped into something. She looked at the front, and found a single white ball floating in the water, bobbing slowly as it turned bit by bit. The bright blue hues of an iris, broken by a relaxed pupil, came into view. She'd expected it. She reached in, plucking it from the water and placing it in the boat, and kept paddling.

Moments later, another thing bumped into the boat. Again, she looked over the edge, this time to spot a hand, fingers wrinkled by the water and outstretched to the sky. Again, she reached out to take it.

The hand grabbed her wrist.

It pulled her into the water, down, down, down, until the pressure on her ears became too much and her lungs were burning and all the light was gone from around her. All she could feel was the coldness of the water and the grip around her wrist, and in the end, she couldn't take it anymore. She exhaled, bubbles fleeing up past her face.

This is the end.

She inhaled, filling her lungs with darkness.

She opened her eyes, gasping, and immediately registered the arms around her, the body pressed against her, and freezing up. Every fibre in her body was screaming for her to get away, push the person away, run as far as she could, but she couldn't move a muscle, even as her breath shortened and she struggled to keep her brain functional.

A hand carded through her now-clean curls. Someone had combed it, for some reason. Why would someone comb her hair? She was just a- She gasped, trying to suppress a sob as her body took over, tears streaming down her face. "Please don't, _please_ , I-" She chocked on her breath, on her tears, she didn't even know anymore. "I don't- please, I'll do-" She gasped as the body next to her suddenly moved, rolling her on her back and pinning her down with their entire body, using one hand to pin her hands above her face and using the other to flick on the light. All of a sudden, she was looking up at two incredibly familiar blue-ish eyes that were staring down at her. He held her as she struggled, his body strong and unyielding above her. In the end, she tired herself out and let herself sink back to blackness.

Sherlock watched her relax, then turned the light off and lay back, frowning at his sister's silhouette as she shivered even in her sleep. They'd anticipated nightmares, even if they were only from the medication, but the begging wasn't something he'd expected. Before, his sister didn't _plead_. She didn't _beg_. He was pretty sure that even _The Woman_ couldn't make her utter anything resembling what had just happened. Before, nothing the world had thrown at her had ever affected the woman like this.

Girl.

Without warning, a memory of his mother's voice drifted through his mind. _For god's sake, Sherlock, she's only a girl! Stop showing her pictures of dead bodies!_ Of course, it didn't work, and less than a week later, the six-year-old asked him to show her the beheaded man again. Two minutes later, the little creature had solved her first murder. Ever since that moment, she'd been pretty much unstoppable.

Sherlock silently moved from the bed. He didn't want to leave his sister alone, but it was nearing dawn and if she still had some of her old habits, she'd be awake soon after, and she'd need breakfast. And since he didn't want to wake his landlady, he'd have to cook. Something big, with eggs and toast and beans and possibly sausages. If he could, he'd run down to a shop to get some scones and fruit and possibly some non-contaminated, fresh milk, but he didn't want to risk her waking up alone in a flat she didn't know. Besides, Mycroft would kill him if he left now. So instead, he moved to the kitchen and started the quest for foodstuffs.

/~\\*/~\

With a shock, her mind pulled back from the near-black nothingness back into her body. On instinct, she kept her breathing deep and stable as her senses frantically scanned her environment for threats. She was in a room... alone. She could sense someone _somewhere_ , but they weren't in that room. Faintly, she registered the sound of someone moving around on the same floor, but it was too far away to be alarming. There was soft light streaming in from a nearby window, teasing her eyelids, and she could hear traffic noises from outside.

She was in a _bed._

She frowned, carefully moving around a bit. Her body felt numb in a way that told her there was something in her system, and her thoughts were ordered in a way they hadn't been in a _long_ time. Flexing her hands, she felt the soft quality of the sheets below her, the cotton catching on the irregularities of her wounds.

 _Where the-_  she moved again, feeling soft blankets scrape on her sensitive neck and along her arms, right up to the edge of the ratty t-shirt she was wearing. _What?_ She finally opened her eyes, taking in the cosy and lived-in room, and frowned. _Definitely not captive anymore, then._ She managed to sit up, groaning at the strain, and looked around. There were some posters on the walls, a periodic table hanging on a prime spot next to the door. The thing was old, but well taken care of, and the colours weren't as bright as they used to be. She stood, unbelieving, and crossed the room to look at it more closely. There, right in the corner of element 67, was a miniscule heart in black ink.

Her eyes opened wide, hope blooming in her chest as warm as the bed she'd just vacated.

"Sherlock..."

Before the feeling could spill over, she moved out of the room, towards the sound of her brother sizzling some bacon in a pan, and without preamble hugged him from behind, burying her nose in his scent.

"Good morning." He chuckled. "Are you wiping your nose on my shirt?"

"You smell familiar." She groaned, frowning. "I feel disconnected. What did you give me?"

He stiffened. "It was Mycroft's idea." He turned off the stove. "Coffee?" He plated the bacon atop of some toast with eggs and placed the two plates on the table. "Oxy, some morphine... anti-psychotic drugs." He sat down and started munching on some toast, gesturing for her to take the other plate. She sat down, staring at the food.

"It explains the dream, at least." She frowned at her plate. "Why anti-psychotics? Wasn't I... lucid?"

"Mycroft didn't want you waking up not-lucid." He pushed the plate in her direction. "Not until we know-"

"YOOHOO!" A sudden noise from the direction of the stairs startled her into ducking under the table. Two heeled shoes appeared in her field of vision, right under a floral dress. "Sherlock, what all that ruckus yester- oh." The floral dress came down as the woman knelt next to the table. "Who is this?" A pair of friendly eyes frowned at her. "Is this a client? Sherlock what did you do to the poor girl?" She held out her hand for her, but she shied back, shifting until her back met something warm that smelt like her brother and pulled  her up.

"I think your drugs are wearing off." She mumbled. He chuckled.

"Mycroft took it all." He made an apologetic sound. "He'll be back this afternoon for a statement, though." He turned to his landlady, who was looking on in bafflement.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Sherrin. She'll be staying here for a while." He gently forced her to sit down on the chair he'd vacated, and pulled the plate closer. The woman studied her for a long moment, then made a pitying sound.

"Oh, darling..."

She glared at the woman and stuffed her mouth with a piece of toast. " _Don't._ " She growled, mouth full. The woman just tittered and shook her head.

"You do need to take care of yourself, dear, you're nothing but bones. Cup of tea?"

She looked up at her brother, who nodded. She picked a piece of bacon.

"Milk and sugar. Green, if you have it."

"We don't." Sherlock smirked at her. "I didn't know you were coming."

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't have time to send a _memo_." She sighed. "To _anyone_. I should-"

"Later." Sherlock frowned at her. "When you don't look like death warmed over."

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson chided, "You don't say that to a lady!"

"I didn't." Sherlock looked genuinely confused. "Did I?"

Surprisingly, the girl laughed, loudly, until she was interrupted by a heavy coughing fit. The landlady tutted, shaking her head as she served three cups of perfectly brewed tea.

/~\\*/~\

John sighed and moved through the door to his friend's front door and up the steps. He still had a left-over headache from the night before, from when he had to listen to his _wife_ rattle on about 'what's going on with _you_ today' when he'd come home and he didn't want to talk about it, and he expected only worse pain now that he was back to find out what was going on. He moved up the stairs, fearing the havoc the detective could wreck when he was home alone.

What he walked in on, however, was a whole different kind of disconcerting. The living room was still mostly clean, probably tidier than it had ever been, and Sherlock was sitting on the coffee table with a case file. His _sister_ was in the kitchen scrubbing away viciously at the table, looking as pale as some of the bodies from the morgue but happily humming a tune he didn't recognise as she worked.

"Afternoon already, doctor?" She asked, not turning around. He didn't even know she'd noticed him come in. "Would you like tea?"

He frowned, confused. "Please." He ignored his friend for the moment and moved to the kitchen to watch her. She did look like she was about to fall over at any moment. Or drop dead.

"Are you all right?"

"Nope." She smirked at him, her lips strangely dark in her white face. "I'll be fine, though. Not my first rodeo." She winched as she reached up for the mugs, but otherwise moved fluently around him, clicking on the water and preparing three mugs - and how did she even know how he took his tea?

"I take it you have questions?" She asked, hopping onto the table as she waited for the water to boil. He studied her again, not being able to ignore how comfortable she seemed to be in the oversized pyjamas, her body relaxed and her back curled as her feet softly swung in the air.

He licked his lips, nodded. "Who _are_ you?" He started, "I mean, you're his sister, but _how_? Where have you been?"

She shrugged. "I'm the _black sheep_ , as Myc likes to call it. With a brother like Sherlock, you can probably imagine what I've been up to." She looked at her hands where they were folded in her lap. "I'm sorry. I've been away too long."

John growled. "You just ignored your family for, what, _five years_? And meanwhile, your brother was getting _killed_. He nearly got blown up, he faked his- _Where were you?_ "

She quirked a brow. "It's actually probably been six. And I _did_ watch the news, when I could." She turned and looked at the case file her brother was reading. "Besides, I was pretty closely acquainted with Mr Moriarty."

Sherlock looked up at that, glaring at her before he quirked a brow. "Really?"

"Yes." She shrugged. "He bragged about you, you know. How he was smarter than the great detective. I don't think he knew, until someone told him."

A hand grabbed her neck and she was pulled back, balancing precariously on the table as John glared at the side of her head. "You _worked_ with that _monster?_ " He hissed, "You _stood by_ while he-"

"No." She growled, her hand moving to his wrist. "You can accuse me of a lot of things, _doctor_ , but _never_ say I was _standing by_." Her tone was  calm, but her fingers were tight around his arm and every muscle in her body was tense, ready to strike. "Now let go of me, _doctor_."

"You filthy-"

"Let. _Go._ " She tightened her grip on his wrist, digging her thumb between the bones. John could feel that even as weak as she was, she could pose a challenge, so he let go of her, pushing her back onto the table roughly. When she rubbed the spots where his hand had been, he once again noticed the dark bruises already there.

"Sorry."

" _Don't_." She growled. "Don't even _pretend_ you care. I don't _need_ a stranger's pity." She turned to Sherlock, keeping a side-eye on the angry man at her side. "Moriarty never did much." She assured. "I don't think he was really... interested in me. I was just a trophy. Something to flaunt with. Then again, I-" She froze, seemed to go on pause. John frowned as Sherlock stood from his perch and moved over, trying to make eye contact.

"Sherrin?" John took her shoulder, trying to shake her, and he only had a quick second to regret as she hissed and jumped up, turning to him and planting her fist squarely on his jaw. She growled at him, then promptly collapsed into a heap on the floor, trembling.

"My goodness, you're a mess, aren't you?" A voice sneered from the doorway. John turned and spotted Mycroft, and before he knew it, the woman was upright again, shoulders squared and staring right back at her brother, even as a stray tear still slid down her face.

"Brother." Her voice was surprisingly steady, right after a meltdown. "I was wondering when you'd show up to _gloat._ " She moved past the men and pulled down an extra mug, filling all four of them with water and tea bags. "A phone call or a minion would have sufficed."

Mycroft frowned. "This is not a matter to be handled by anyone else." He placed his umbrella near the hat stand and seated himself on the couch. "I do need a statement from you."

"Right." She shook her head. "Do you even have authority to debrief me? To make this official and viable in a court of law?" Mycroft's face turned dark, and she nodded. "Did you look into that?"

Mycroft sipped his tea. "I did."

"And you don't." Sherlock concluded, taking his own tea and sipping it as he studied his brother. "Yet you're here."

"Why?" She hopped back onto the table. "There is no reason for you to be here, let alone _alone_. Why didn't you bring someone who- oh." She put her cup down, stalking his way. "Oh." A Cheshire grin played over her face or a second. "It's him. _He_ is the one that's supposed to debrief me."

John frowned, confused by the whole thing. "Who?"

She swallowed. "Oliver Doe." She explained. "My... partner in crime. Before." She turned to Mycroft. "Where is he?"

He tilted his head to study his tea. "Sadly, he went off the grid."

"Which is a clean-hands way of saying you lost him." She sighed deeply and plopped down in Sherlock's chair. "We need to find him. Even without the statement, I need to speak to him. I need to find out what _exactly_ happened."

"Hold on." John interrupted. "Can someone _please_ \- What is going on? What the _hell_ -"

"I was made six years ago." She interrupted, gesturing for him to sit, too. He rolled his eyes, and she continued. "It was an undercover job, investigating human trafficking. We were planning to take down a ring stretching from Russia to America. I would go undercover as an Estonian, get shipped here, then be pulled out by my partner before they could... set me to work." She sighed. "For some reason, he never came." She stared at her hands. "After six months, I knew no one would be coming."

John stared at her, baffled. With the malnourishment and general state of her body, he'd figured something bad had happened to her, but trafficking... He'd heard the stories, both back when he was in the army and over his time working with Sherlock, and none of them were nice. Girls and women would be sold or rented out to be used, abused, in all kinds of ways. If she'd really survived for six years in that hell, she'd come off relatively unscathed.

"I'm sorry."

She shot up as if a spring had launched her from the chair. " _Don't_." She glared at him. "Don't make me out to be some sort of _victim_. I _chose_ to do it, and I was _well aware_ of the risks." Her tea was smashed onto the coffee table with a force that made the liquid slosh over the rim. "I made a choice, and I paid the price. _I am no victim_. Got that?"

John nodded, shocked. "Got it. I'm-"

" _No_." She turned sharply to Mycroft. "Do you have anything on him?" She asked, "Any idea where he can be?" At his headshake, she frowned. "Am I discharged yet?"

"What?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Am I still in function?" She asked again, "Because if I am, I'd like a laptop with internet access and a file with everything you do have on him. Also, a pen and paper and some arrest warrants would be brilliant. The sooner I can finish all the paperwork, the better."

"No." Sherlock moved from the kitchen, glaring her down and pushing her back into the chair. "You're _not_ going to kill yourself."

"I _won't_." She snarled. "I've survived alone in Hell for _years_ , I can survive finding him. It's not like he's going to kill me."

"But you will." Sherlock glared. "Have you looked at yourself? You're a walking corpse!"

She glared, and grabbed his hand, placing it square over her heart. "You feel that?" She hissed, "Still beating. And as long as it is, I will fight to bring these monsters down. Even if it is the last thing I do."

He dropped his hand, and his head. John watched the whole exchange, watched as his best friend seemingly gave up fighting his sister. It seemed that even bloodied and broken, she was a stubborn woman.

"You promised." Sherlock had looked up, looking at her with pleading eyes. She looked up at him, contemplating.

"I did." She nodded, resigned. "I did." She sighed. "Will you... help me?"

"Naturally." Mycroft stood, brushing off unseen dust from his jacket. "We'll provide anything you might need." He pulled out a packet of pills and a phone. "Even if it is not what you might want." He moved to the door. "My men will provide dinner. I've been informed your fridge is... lacking."

"Oh, for fu-" she glared at him. "Do they provide _security_ as well? Make sure I don't leave the house?"

A small smile played around the bureaucrat's mouth. "Yes." He strode out the door and down the stairs before she could comment.

/~\\*/~\

That evening, after John had gone home, some minions stopped by with a laptop and a box of food. Mrs. Hudson, having followed the two up, immediately forced Sherrinford to eat some of it. She did so reluctantly, and then happily sipped the green tea the landlady made her as Sherlock set up the computer. He was fumbling with the power cord for a moment, before he managed to get the thing going and started up Internet.

"Where do we start searching?" He asked, She frowned at him.

"We?" She asked, confused. "Don't you have cases? Real clients to work on?"

"Not really." He shrugged. "There is an ongoing issue, but this is more important."

She rolled her eyes. "There's a reasonable chance he changed his last name by now." She said, thinking out loud. "How many Olivers are there in the UK?"

Sherlock searched for a moment, then frowned at his screen. "Roughly seventeen thousand born around eighty-two." He searched again. "Zero Oliver Does." He sat back. "Any other bright ideas?"

She sipped the tea, savouring the bitterness. "Try other last names. Anything he might've used. Smith, Potter, Phillips, maybe."

Sherlock typed for a while. "Three-hundred-and-six Smiths, eight Potters, thirty-eight Phillipses."

She sat up a bit. "Could you cross-reference those with stats from Benefits?"

He hummed and went to work. "A _ninth_ Potter filed for housing benefits." He smirked at his sister, then went back to his screen. "His address is in Saint Michael's Street."

She jumped up, barely even winching from pain. "Brilliant!" She smiled broadly at him. "We got him! Come on, if we leave now, we might catch him in his dinner!"

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft would kill me."

She shrugged. "He'd kill you for suicidal tendencies and drug use, too, but that hasn't stopped you." At his shocked face, she winked. "I tapped into the Network to figure out where to find you. They were very helpful." She sighed. "We can take the Underground, kidnap him and be back before Mycroft can get here." Her eyes turned pleading. "Please?"

"No." Sherlock stared t the wall for a moment, thinking. "Mrs. Hudson won't even let you out the front door."

She sighed deeply and dropped down on the couch, winching slightly at the way it jostled her bones, but hiding it well. She grabbed around for a pillow and nuzzled her face in it. "Will you go for me, at least? Just... to leave a message? I need to tell him I'm back." She was silent for a while. "Mummy and Dad, too. I should send them a card."

Sherlock hummed.  "Perhaps pay them a visit. Mummy will cry."

She chuckled. "As did you." She moved her head to peer at him with one eye. "Emotion's not a bad thing, Lock."

He rolled his eyes. "I _know._ " He drawled. "But it's dangerous."

"Yeah." She shrugged one shoulder. "Makes you do stupid things, like jumping off of buildings." Her one eye studied him intently. "I do get it. That woman is really kind."

"I didn't-" Sherlock bit his tongue, but the gleam in his sister's eye told him she knew.

"I noticed the doctor man is wearing a ring." She noted, almost offhandedly. "What's their name?"

"Mary." He didn't even try to hide the winch, knowing it was futile in front of her. "Mornstan." Unconsciously, he rubbed his chest. Of course, his sister noticed.

"Is she the one who shot you through the heart?" She asked, "She is." She sighed. "Why is still with her? Oh." Her eye flicked over his face. "A boy or a girl?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Does it matter?" He let his eyes roam over his sister's body. "How were you made?"

She smirked in a pillow. "When a man and a woman have a certain kind of fun together-"

"Ugh!" Sherlock threw his hand up. " _How_ _did they find out you were undercover_?"

She closed her eye. "I'm tired now. Would you help me to the bed or should I crash here?"

He groaned. "You will have to tell us some day."

"Must be the oxy." She ignored him. "My body isn't used to the drugs anymore." She sat up. "Help me to bed?" She asked again, "Please?"

He sighed, getting up out of his chair.

/~\\*/~\

_"Well, well." His frustratingly straight teeth were shown in a smug sneer as he towered over her hunched form. "Trying to leave again?" His brown Italian shoe hit her hard in the abdomen, then in the chest. "Trying to escape?" He leaned down and grabbed her long mob of hair, pulling her up by it before slamming her head on the ground. "Whore."_

_She let out a weak chuckle, the blood from her nose flowing between her lips. "No."_

_"'Scuse me?" He growled, placing his foot on her knee. She glanced down, panting, and realised what he was about to do. His fury would cause permanent damage, which might not be a bad thing._

_"Whore suggests you're paying me." She hissed as he applied pressure, but managed not to make a sound besides that. "You're  not."_

_He sneered again. "You're right." He gave her one last kick, trying to dislocate her kneecap, but the floor she was laying on and his minimal strength prevented it. "You're a slut."_

/~\\*/~\

She awoke roughly, her body already halfway on its way to the floor. She tried to save herself by grabbing the bedding, but only succeeded in pulling the covers with her and twisting her body so that she hit her head on the end table. She groaned, her body hurting in too many places for her to move. At least Sherlock was still asleep. She'd spent the entire previous day putting on her brave face, but it had been exhausting, for her mind and body. Everything hurt, from her head to her toes, and especially her ribcage. Every movement hurt, and every breath seemed to wheeze and rattle through her lungs. She was pretty sure at least one of her ribs was broken.

"Are you coming back to bed?" A voice drawled. She sighed.

"I'm fine here, I think."

There was a rustle and then the silhouette of a head of unruly curls appeared above her. "Are you okay?"

"I think I broke one of my ribs." She confessed.

The head disappeared as he sat up. "From falling?" He asked, jokingly. A moment later, his shirt landed on her face, shielding her eyes, and the light flicked on. He carefully plucked the shirt off, giving her eyes time to get used to the light.

He blinked down at her, brows raised. "You're bleeding."

She blinked up at him. "So I am." She offered him a smile. "Could you help me?"

He chuckled and stepped over her, out of the bed, and walked to the bathroom to get a wet cloth.

"Why do you even have an end table on the side of the bed where you don't sleep?"

The tap ran. "You're not lucid."

"Not really, no." She thought about it. "But I'm not seeing things yet. I'm a six, maybe a seven."

"Right." He came back in with a cloth and kneeled next to her to clean her head wound, meanwhile scanning the rest of her body with his eyes. "You're worse than you let on."

"No shit." She giggled. "Sherlock."

He glared. "You're a terrible person."

"I know." She let her eyes drift shut. "You keep reminding me." She carded her fingers through the strands of the thick carpet. "Along with several other people." She sat up, the sudden movement causing black spots in her vision. She ignored it, mostly. "You should go back to bed." She allowed him to help her up, but started protesting the moment he steered her to the bed. Her brother ignored her, dumping her on the sheets unceremoniously. She groaned as her body bounced on the spring mattress. In a swift move, he pulled the covers to her chin.

"Sleep." He ordered. She glared up at him, but didn't respond, and he sighed. "Your body needs rest."

Her face blanched and she spent nearly a minute studying him before she uttered a word. "He changed you." She offered a tiny, but sincere smile. "It suits you." She patted the bed next to her, and he carefully got in next to her, lying on his side to study her.

"I'm still going to sneak off the moment you're asleep, though."

He chuckled, slinging an arm around her shoulders to keep her in place. "Hmm." He smiled at her contours and reached over to turn off the lamp. "No."

/~\\*/~\

She awoke in the bed alone and with a familiar prickling in the back of her brain that told her she hadn't had nearly enough sleep. There was also a very present ache spreading from the core of her very bones that told her she wouldn't be leaving the bed much that day.

She groaned. Maybe, if she was loud enough, Sherlock or that nice landlady would come and check on her.  The only problem was that she was too tired to move, even to open her mouth to shout out. So she just lay there, listening for any sounds of people in the flat, any sound that indicated someone was making breakfast, or lunch. She had absolutely no clue what time it was, really. Maybe it was time for dinner already.

The door slowly opened, and she managed to turn her head towards it. It opened to a crack, the person behind it careful to be silent, so it wasn't Sherlock or Mycroft, at least, and the doctor wouldn't visit her in the bedroom. Which left....

"Ma'am." Her voice came out as nothing more than a croak. The door opened more and she smiled at the woman peeking inside the room When the woman saw she was awake, she smiled back and entered the room, revealing a tray with tea and breakfast. She quickly strode into the room and placed the tray on the end table, sitting down on the edge of the bed like a mother tending to a sick child, and handed her a mug of tea.

She sipped the tea, humming at the taste of honey. "Thank you, ma'am."

She smiled. "No need to be so formal, dear." She patted her knee. "Sherlock's been rude to me plenty of times."

She frowned. "I'm not a carbon copy of my brother." She rasped, offering the woman a small smile.

The woman chuckled. "Of course not, dear." She smiled. "Now eat your breakfast, I did promise your brother."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course he'd let _you_ babysit." She groaned. "He knows I can't yell at a stranger."

"No offense dear," The woman said, humour bright in her eyes, "But you don't sound like you can yell at all."

With raised eyebrows, she sipped the tea again.

"Eat something as well, dear, you need it."

She examined the toast. "I'm not sure I can take it." She admitted. "Aside from yesterday, I haven't had decent food in ages."

"Oh, sweetie." She sighed, her voice full of the parental concern she hadn't heard in _ages_. "Try some toast, at least, and maybe some chicken broth." Her eyes seemed to  be pleading with her, the sad pity in her eyes too much to look at.

She looked down. "I'll try." A small smile played around her mouth. "If you could give me paper to work on, I promise to sit still for a day." She thought for a moment. "It'll give Sherlock something to do as well, typing out my atrocious writing."

The woman giggled and shook her head. "It would be good to keep him busy. He's been so preoccupied with that whole Moriarty thing, ghastly."

"Moriarty?" She frowned. "James Moriarty is _dead_."

"Oh, yes, he blew his brains out." The woman nodded. "Nasty business. The clean-up must've been terrible.  But a few weeks ago someone plastered his face over every screen, like a message from beyond, with a distorted voice and all. It was horrible, but it brought my boy back. Truth be told, I'm still not sure if it wasn't Mycroft."

She hummed, but shook her head. "No, that's not his style." Then, the rest of the information seeped into her brain. "Hold on, _brought back_?"

The woman nodded solemnly. "He was going to be sent away on a mission, apparently he'd done something really bad. The message came right on time, saved him from Serbia. I'm glad, too. The boy's already been through so much."

"Yeah." She frowned. "Serbia?" She shrugged. "Odd. I was there a while ago." She tried, and succeeded, not to shudder at the memory. Serbia was not a nice place, especially not the places she'd been and the people she'd met. Any mission her brother could be sent on would involve those people, a lot of hiding away and close combat, and almost certain death. She could always argue that Mycroft didn't know the risks, because he hadn't been there and seen it, but Mycroft _always_ knew the risks. When their father had bought her first bike, Mycroft had made an assessment of the risks involved in learning to ride a bicycle. He wouldn't have sent his brother to Serbia without knowing what  that meant. And he wouldn't send him to a near-certain death unless there was no other option.

Sherlock must've done something really stupid, in Mycroft's eyes at least.

Something _sentimental_.

She closed her eyes. "I'll try the toast." She promised. "I'm tired now, though." She was, and her body hurt, but it was also a good excuse to get the woman out of the room. The woman seemed to understand though, and stood, pulling a small packet from her dress and winking at her.

"It's the strongest I've got." She explained, a small apologetic glint in her eyes, as she popped two pills. "For my hip. I tell the boys it's a herbal soother. Because of-"

"Sherlock." She held out her hand and studied the pills. "You shouldn't worry too much, he never was into _soothers_. Not in a day-to-day basis, anyway." She swallowed them without water and then washed them down with tea. It would take at least fifteen minutes for the stuff to take effect, which would be enough to write a first report.

The landlady was already moving to the door. "I'll bring a notebook in a minute, dear." She promised, closing the room behind her.

/~\\*/~\

"Sherlock." She didn't even look up from her writings as he opened the door to the bedroom. "Remind me to punch you in the face when I can again." She looked up at him and couldn't resist smirking. His hair was a mess, the curls standing up every which way, and there were leafs and sticks sticking out of it. She rolled her eyes at him and tapped the bed next to her. He sat down, thoroughly confused.

"What did I do?"

"Well, for starters..." She started plucking stuff from his hair, "... you left me alone with that woman, who is _smotheringly nice_ by the way, while you ran off interrogating trees, and she fed me wrong meds and I've been wonky all day but at least it doesn't hurt that much." She untangled a big stick from his hair. "And then there's Serbia."

Sherlock stilled. "You heard."

"Yes, your landlady filled me in." She plucked another leaf from his hair. "She didn't tell me what you did to deserve a death sentence, though."

Sherlock sat up a little, allowing her to see the pain in his eyes. She swallowed.

"Oh, _Sherlock._ " She hugged him closer. "Really? That's supposed to be _my_ job."

He shrugged as best as he could in her hold. "You weren't there."

"I'm sorry."She went back to cleaning his hair. "Do you want to talk about it? Who were they?"

"Charles Augustus Magnussen." She froze for only a microsecond at his answer, but he noticed anyway. "You knew him?"

"Yes." She bit her lip. "Not _knew him_ knew him, but we have met. The world's a better place without him." She plucked the last leaf from his hair and nodded to herself. "Now, would you mind delivering a letter for me?"

/~\\*/~\

The consulting detective rang the doorbell, long and hard. He knew the receiver for the letter was home, he'd checked in Mycroft's CCTV before he left. He knew he could leave the piece of paper in the mail slot, but he wanted to see his face as the news was delivered.

The door opened and he was right there, smirking when he saw Sherlock.

"Holmes. Took you long enough."


	2. Part two: Reuniting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to let people know she's back. After six years, reactions will be mixed...

The man was taller than Sherlock and twice as broad, but he slouched comfortably against the doorframe, his reddish hair messy as if he'd just gotten out of bed, his beard grown and barely kept. He was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms, too, with a pattern of beer bottles. All in all, he looked like he hadn't left the house in a week.

"Want to come in?" He stepped aside. Sherlock glared at him, but moved over the doorstep, inside and through the hall to the living room.

"You were expecting me." Sherlock noted, still glaring. Oliver nodded, moving to where his laptop was resting on his coffee table.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I figured you'd come here sooner, though. If you were anything like your sister, anyway."

"Don't you _dare_ talk about her." Sherlock hissed. "Especially if you _knew_."

Oliver looked thoroughly confused. "Knew what?"

Sherlock blanched. "Why did you expect me here?" He asked. Oliver searched for something on his laptop and set up a video.

"I saved your life." He hit play and the haunting face of his ex-nemesis came into view, a distorted voice repeating _did you miss me_ over and over and over again, those soulless eyes burning off the screen. "I figured you came because you filtered out my voice."

"No." Sherlock pulled out an envelope. "Although I appreciate the solution to that particular conundrum, I'm here for something else." He tossed the letter his way and turned to leave.

"What's this?" Oliver took the envelope, turning it around in his hands. On the front, there was the perfectly square and evenly spaced handwriting of someone trying very hard to be readable. He frowned. "Where did you find this?"

"I didn't." Sherlock was already halfway through the hall when he turned. "If I had, I'd never give you. This is a favour."

"For me?" Oliver sounded utterly confused. Sherlock opened the front door.

Sherlock scoffed. " _Never_."

*/~\\*/~\\*

Sherlock reached his front door just as John was opening it. The doctor frowned at him. "Did you leave her alone?" He asked, slightly accusing.

Sherlock shrugged. "Hudson is home." He bounded up the stairs, taking off his scarf on the way. "Besides, she's old enough to take care of herself."

"She can barely make tea!" John protested, racing up the stairs after him.

Sherlock frowned. "Actually, today, she's barely come out of bed."

" _What?!_ " They entered the living room and found it empty, the curtains drawn and a messy stack of empty files on the coffee table. Sherlock moved to the kitchen immediately, turning on the kettle and searching the cupboards for cookies.

There was the creak of a door, followed by soft, irregular footsteps. They stopped just at the edge of the kitchen, and there was a thud as she collapsed and held herself up against the wall.

"Sherlock?" A tiny voice came, "Head count?"

*/~\\*/~\\*

She awoke from her mostly-dreamless slumber with a start when a shout sounded through the flat. It seemed like the good doctor was visiting again. Groaning at every move, she carefully sat up and stretched. Every bone and muscle in her body hurt and her head felt heavy from sleep, but if she didn't show herself, the doctor would surely insist on taking her to the hospital, and Sherlock would agree. The only reason her brothers hadn't already dragged her to some private clinic was that even now, when she couldn't get out of bed without a pound of painkillers, her brothers were slightly scared of her. They had a right to be, frankly, as she took after her mother; able to explode in the most silent but devastating way, taking everything that entered her fury's visor down to searing ashes. Three against one was too much even for her, though, especially when one of those three had actually studied to help people like her. Hence, she needed to gear up.

She couldn't find much in terms of armour in her brother's wardrobe; the only things there were suits, pyjamas and ridiculous costumes, all of them too big for her small frame. She needed to ask Mycroft for new clothes, or maybe her old stuff back. With a twinge she realised she didn't even know how much was left from her life _before_.

Biting her lip and stifling her every groan as she was trained, she changed into a clean shirt and refreshed her smell with some deodorant she found in his nightstand. She smelt like a posh man, now, but it was better than smelling like she'd been in bed all day. After checking herself over one last time, she straightened herself, steadied her gait, slipped on her mask, and left the room.

She shuffled a bit, reasoning that John would ignore her stiffness if he thought she'd only just awakened. As she walked down the short hall to the kitchen, she had the growing feeling she was being watched. It was probably just John or Sherlock, but on instinct she looked up and scanned her surroundings.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter in one of his _hateable_ blue suits, his tie checkered green and red, the ever-present leer deforming his face. His appearance slammed all the air out of her, making her stagger. She could only just catch herself on the wall at her side. Surely, Sherlock hadn't... Right? He had no idea what the man had done, and they had been acquainted before. Maybe he was here for some case, maybe he'd said he was a witness or something. Perhaps he'd just showed up at their doorstep and forced his way in with smooth words and crude behaviour.

Or perhaps...

Her gaze fell to the floor and she swallowed. "Sherlock?" She ventured, her voice not quite working. "Head count?" She usually could tell; there were tiny _off_ details every time, but her brain was too busy with her pretence that she was all right. Luckily, Sherlock caught on. He was at her side in seconds, grounding her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Just me and John." He assured her. "Who do you see?" He guided her to a chair and let her sit. She shivered as his eyes followed her, his leer growing. She hunched up on herself and stared at the table, not brave enough to look up, afraid he'd be _right there_.

"You wouldn't believe me." She bit her lip, knowing he'd push until she'd tell him. Her brain was working miles a minute, trying to come up with a convincing lie. "It's completely random, anyway. You know that."

Sherlock kept looking at her, trying to gain information from her body. She was hunched over, staring blankly at the table as if she didn't dare to look up. She looked terrified, her usual air of confidence and defiance all but gone and her usual steady body trembling slightly.

"Tell me."

She sighed, closing her eyes. "Seb _shitface_ Wilkes." She swallowed, realising he needed the full story. "He was one of them."

John came over, turning off the water boiler. "One of who?"

"Who _m_." She looked up at him, smiling, her eyes slightly red. "The men I was after. He was one of the first I came across. I-" She swallowed again, squinting her eyes shut. Seb had moved closer, leaning over the table to be in her field of vision, still leering.

"Tell them." He growled. "Tell what I did to you. See if they care." He moved over the table, pulling his leg up lewdly to whisper in her ear. "They didn't come when you were gone. Why would they care now?"

She glared at the image. "Because he's my _brother_." She growled, forgetting the others couldn't see him. "He thought I was dead, but he does care."

"I do." Sherlock assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder. His face was thunderous, but he wasn't  angry at her. "I'll call Mycroft."

" _No_." She shook her head vehemently. "You _will_ do this the official way. We'll wait for Oliver to react and make a plan then. You will _not_ run off and torture Seb to death. _Yet_."

" _Oliver_." Sherlock abruptly turned to John, dropping his hand from her shoulder. "The Moriarty issue has been solved. It had been him, apparently."

"Really?" Sherrin stood, ignoring Seb's leer, and started pacing as well as she could, deep in thought. "Why? He has no reason to protect you, you're of no use to him, especially if he didn't know I'm still alive. Unless he lied about that, but he knows not to lie to a Holmes. Still, he must've had _some_ ulterior motive."

John smiled as he noticed so much of her brother's way in her. " _Sentiment_?" He suggested, easily falling into his role as a conductor. "You two were partners, right? He might've wanted to protect your family."

She hummed. "Plausible, but no." She turned to look at the doctor. "If he'd wanted to protect Sherlock, he'd've shot Moriarty the moment he entered stage." She frowned. "Unless..." She darted to Sherlock's laptop, faster than anyone could imagine, and opened John's blog. " _The Great Game_." She pulled up the story. "You talked about laser sights. Snipers. What if those were him, too? It's easy to mount more lights on one gun." She scanned the page, scrolling down. " _Theimprobableone._ Do you know who that is?" When they didn't react, she looked back and scanned her brother's face. "Highly... improbable, then. Perhaps somewhere else."

John joined her at the computer. "You think he's been spying on us all this time?"

She shrugged. "He's a spy. It's what he does, that's his life. It would surprise me if he _isn't_ spying on you." Just as she was closing the laptop, ready for some tea, when there was a loud bang from downstairs. John was at the door in seconds, standing guard, and Sherrin subtly slipped into a fighter's stance. Mrs Hudson's shouts seemed to go ignored, and someone barrelled up the stairs. As soon as the head of messy red hair appeared in the hallway, Sherrin relaxed.

"At ease, Captain." She stepped forward, towards the seven-foot whirlwind that stormed into the room. When he caught sight of her, he stopped in his tracks.

"You're here." His eyes roamed over her, unbelieving. "You're _here_."

Before anyone knew what was happening, he surged forward, pinning her to the wall, a hand at her throat. "You _bitch_. Six years, _six years_ and not _one_ word. _You bitch_!" His accent was heavy and northern, his words slightly slurred. John and Sherlock stepped forward to intervene, but Sherrin called them off, placing a hand on his wrist.

"You've been drinking." She noted. He growled.

" _Don't you start_." He pushed up on her neck, her feet now barely touching the ground. "You come back after _six years_ and expect me _not_ to drink?! You bloody cunt!"

She closed her eyes. "You are _very_ drunk." She concluded. "Oli-"

" _No!_ " He was really close to her face now, practically suffocating her by lifting her off her feet. "Don't you _Oliver_ me! You _left me_ and now you have the _balls_ to show up after six years? _What did you expect_? Did you honestly expect me to be all _jolly_ and _happy_? _Why the bloody buggering fuck-_ "

"I was made." She managed between gasps, interrupting his tirade. "I was-"

" _Fuck that_!" He suddenly lowered his voice, hissing to her, and her alone, though John could still make out his words. "You're _too good_ to be made. I bet you did it _on purpose_. You _wanted_ them to get you." He spat in her face. "All those men, using you until you pass out. I bet you _loved_ it. _Whore_." He suddenly stepped back, letting her drop to the floor like a marionette doll with cut strings. She stared up at him, eyes big.

"Ol-" She managed to croak out. He planted his foot in her stomach, hard, and then kicked her chest.

" _Bitch_." He repeated one more time. "I'd say _fuck you_ , but you'd love that." He marched off, but turned at the door. "You shouldn't've come back to life, Snow." He growled. "Should've let them slaughter you when they had the chance."

The outside door slammed, leaving the flat in eerie silence. John stared at the door in shock, missing the mental breakdown happening meters away from him until the woman gasped loudly and started muttering.

"Make them stop." She begged, her entire body trembling. " _Please,_ make them stop. _Please,_ anyone-" She gasped, pulling her knees up and hiding her face behind them, curling into a ball. Sherlock was at her side in moments, not touching but talking to her in the most soothing rumble the doctor had ever heard.

"What are they saying?" He asked, attempting to activate his sister's logic brain. She gasped again, peering at him with one eye. "Come on, Sherry, talk to me. You know it helps."

She shook her head. "Mnot Sherry." She managed. "Mnot good. Not a good girl. Bad, bad, _bad..._ " She kept muttering it over and over, but slowly, she seemed to calm, enough to look up at the two men.

"Are they right?" She asked, her voice small and scared, "Was he- They're telling me I should end it, never should've come back. You all have lives. There's no room for me." She was trembling again, and a single tear escaped her red eyes to roll to her chin. "No place."

Sherlock stilled for a second, then, in a flurry of limbs, he embraced his sister. He was still wearing his coat, and the little woman disappeared completely between the fabric.

John was stunned. He'd known the detective for years, and never, _never_ , had he seen the man be like this. He was so _caring_ , so _affected_. Then again, his sister had come in, in the middle of some sort of episode, had been threatened, choked, and then had another, heavier, episode. He'd had no clue his friend could be like that, _no idea_.

There was one he did know, though. Oliver Doe was one of the biggest arseholes he'd ever met. Even Seb Wilkes, the banker with the annoyingly smug smile who apparently _raped_ girls, had more of a likable personality than the man who'd just stormed into their house and had abused his former partner.

"Tea." Sherlock rumbled, pulling john from his line of thought. The doctor moved back to the kitchen, turning on the boiler and pulling down three mugs.

"How does she drink it?"

"Black." Sherlock slowly stood, having somehow picked up his sister. He looked down between the folds of his coat. "Never mind that. She's asleep." He moved to his room, leaving her there. When he'd returned, John had two cups ready and looked slightly nervous, as if he wanted to discuss something hard.

Sherlock knew what it was. He sat, sipped his tea, and waited.

Eventually, it came. "Have you ever tested your sister for mental illnesses?"

Sherlock smiled at his friend. Ever the doctor, ever trying to be subtle. "She got her first symptoms when she was three." He told the doctor. "Talking to people who weren't there. At first, my parents thought she was _like me_ , but we soon figured out it was more. She was diagnosed when she was five."

John swallowed. "Did she ever get... treatment? Help? ... Medication?" The doctor seemed slightly concerned, and extremely curious.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "My parents tried medication, but she refused. It takes away too much of her brain capacity, she says it makes her feel disconnected."

John nodded, knowing how important the _brain_ was for the Holmes family. "She opted to stay mad."

Sherlock nodded, smirking. "Completely bonkers. The best people are."

*/~\\*/~\\*

She came to with the smell of Chinese take-away. She had an ear-splitting headache, and there was a disconcerting figure looming in the corner. She stuck her tongue out at it, and wrestled her way out of bed. She was hungry.

When she entered the living room, all eyes turned to her. Sherlock was there, and John and Mycroft, and a man - _tired, overworked, working for NSY - DI or DCI-_ stood up to introduce himself. He extended his hand, and she studied it. _Ink splotches, smears, curry on cuff._ She narrowed her eyes. _Wearing the same shirt for at least two days, paperwork._ The man seemed to introduce himself, but his outfit spoke louder than his voice. _Dirt on shoes, faint traces of dumpster juice, blood on side. Crime scene._ The world around her seemed to come alive, twisting and morphing until she was in an alley, her mind forming an image from the man's body. She looked down at the victim, studying them carefully.

Mycroft scraped his throat, and the alley disappeared. She blinked and smiled at the DI, who was staring at her confusedly.

"Sorry for that." She offered another smile and held out her hand. "Sherrinford Holmes, pleasure to meet you. I seem to have missed your name, detective?"

The man frowned, but shook her hand. "Greg Lestrade, nice to meet you."

She nodded. "Pleasure's all mine. Book the boyfriend."

"What?" His frown intensified as she moved past and took a carton of Chinese.

She sat down on the couch. "The victim's boyfriend. From the crime scene you just came from? The boyfriend did it."

Lestrade was gobsmacked, but Sherlock and Mycroft just smiled faintly.

"I take it you are well, then?" The British government noted.

She shrugged, looking over her shoulder. "Death is following me." She noted. "Other than that, I'm fine."

Greg frowned. "Bit melodramatic, don't you think?"

"Not really." She pointed to where she saw the figure. "He's right there." At his confused face, she explained, "I'm schizophrenic. There's actually a cloaked man with a scythe in my head. In the room. Whatever." She managed to work a gigantic piece of curry chicken into her mouth and chewed happily, eating silently as the DI and Sherlock picked up the conversation about the alley murder, her brother using her epiphany to lay out the details of the case. She ignored all the stares and the doctor's studying eyes, working on getting sustenance with inhuman concentration.

Eventually, she ran out of curry.

"We need to do something about _the case_." She informed her brothers solemnly. "Oliver won't want to cooperate, so it might be a good thing Mr Lestrade is here." She gestured to the stack of files that someone had relocated to the mantle. "There's a list of names in there somewhere. Could be the biggest case of his career, really." Mycroft stood, producing the list with a flourish and scanning it before handing it to the DI.

Lestrade frowned as he read the list. "There are some influential names on here." He noted. "Are all of these legit?"

"Yes." She nodded, leaning back and relaxing into the couch. "Though I'd advise you not to mention my name. People doubt my abilities sometimes."

Mycroft scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You _do_ make up the strangest things."

"They're _symptoms._ " She quirked a brow at her brother, who sniffed glumly and pulled out two packets of pills, one of Oxy, and one John didn't recognise.

" _Symptoms_ that could be relieved with _treatment_."

She snatched the Oxy one, glancing at the dosage before popping two. "Besides the point, _dear brother_." She delivered the last two words with a sneer and a glare, her tone more laden with viciousness than when she'd been shouting. She turned to the detective. "Do you think it's enough to arrest them?"

The man shrugged. "You've given me a list of names, with no indication of what they've done. Why would I arrest them?"

She shrugged, popping both pills in her mouth, winching at the taste before swallowing. "These people have all been involved in human trafficking and illegal slavery." She explained. "Many of them dabbled in other things as well. You'll find some of the people on the list have passed away-"

" _James Moriarty_?" Greg hissed in disgust, "Man, I knew he was a sick fuck, but-"

"Actually, he never did, as you'd put it, _fuck_." She smirked at his shock. "He was more interested in breaking them mentally. His slaves were toys to him." She sat up a bit. "You'll find Magnussen on the list, as well, though my brother has informed me of his demise. He never owned anyone, but they often tried to bribe him with _carnal_ pleasures."

John heard a chocked off sound and glanced at his best friend to see a flicker of intense rage pass his expression. Of course, it didn't take a consulting detective to know what she was talking about. She'd been passed around as if she was a piece of meat to play with, a toy to be passed around the schoolyard. _No one deserved that_.

"Who?" he croaked, his voice rough from anger. He scraped his throat and tried again. "Who did?"

She stared at him for a brief second, blinking, stunned by his sudden   _caring_ , before she recovered. "A woman who called herself Amelia, mostly. She brought me to him as payment. He just laughed at her and told her I was Mycroft's little sister. She dumped me soon after, could be anywhere now. Could be anyone." She met the doctor's eyes, her gaze fiery. "If I could take down just one person on that list, it'd be her. She had a nick for using me to pay off debts."

"That's terrible." He breathed. _How did she not go insane?_

"I already was." She looked at him with a mild smirk, the gleam in her eyes telling his she'd deduced his thoughts. "I'm bat-shit crazy. It's how I survived." She stared into nothingness for a moment. "I think."

"Tea." Sherlock decided, standing and moving to the kitchen, his entire body jittery. "Tea?"

"Tea." His sister stood as well, with a groan. "I'll help."

Greg stood as well, indignant. "Hold on!" He nearly shouted, "You can't just run! There's still a case to build!"

She stilled, apparently fed up.

"Arrest those people, _detective_." She ordered, her voice dangerously clipped. "Raid their houses. Take every scrap of paper you can find. Turn every stone. We can deal with the paperwork later." She turned to pin him with a fierce look. "Now _go do your job_."

The DI seemed to snap into action, scrambling to get to the door. Moments later, the outside door slammed.

 She walked to the door. "MRS HUDSON!" Her voice rang out, before she was taken by a coughing fit. A door opened downstairs.

"Yes, love?" The elderly woman was standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling up at her.

"Doctor Watson says you make the _best_ tea and biscuits." She offered her sweetest, most innocent smile, and the landlady chuckled.

"I've got scones in the oven, dear, I'll be right up."

"You, milady, are lovely." She offered another smile and a wink, and the woman tutted before they both turned back to their apartments.

Mycroft quirked his brow at her, and she shrugged.

"I need food." She explained. "Why not exploit the lovely elderly lady?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oliver Doe."

"What about him?" She moved to the kitchen to help Sherlock with the tea. "He'll be of little help."

Mycroft glared at her. "What will we do with him?"

John frowned at the government official. "He _beat up_ your sister! Can't you-"

"No." She shook her head. "Mycroft will do _nothing._ " She dropped herself on the couch. "Just like Mycroft did nothing when you attacked Sherlock several times on the day he returned, just like he did nothing when your wife shot him. No matter how omnipresent he is, he can't actually do anything if we tell him not to." She brought it factually, but still John could feel the sting of her words. It didn't last long, though, because right after, she turned back to Mycroft. "You won't do anything. Got it?"

Mycroft looked chastised. "Got it." He pulled out his phone, slightly too casual. "Anything I _can_ do?"

"Yes. I need clothes and get my licences and papers renewed. And-"She swallowed. "Set up a meeting with mummy and daddy."

Mycroft nodded, a smirk breaking out on his face. "Of course."

She glared. "Shut up."

*/~\\*/~\\*

Just over a week later, John visited his friend to help his parents deal with the fact that her dead daughter was still alive. They'd been prepared, of course, but still, if anyone could know what kind of shock it was to have someone you thought dead for years stand in front of you.

They met at Speedy's, and for the first time since they met, John saw Sherrinford in regular clothes. She was wearing tight jeans and sneakers, topped off with a simple striped shirt and, most surprisingly, a very big, very saggy black beanie pulled over her curls. John could just imagine her being the bad girl in some student film, with a worn-out leather jacket slung over her shoulders and a cigarette dangling from her lips. _All the wrong kinds of sexy_.

"I don't smoke." She informed him with a smirk. "Never have. I _do_ own a leather jacket, though."

He frowned. "How did you know?"

With a shrug, she seated herself in a booth. "Oliver used to look at me like that all the time." She swallowed and stared at a smudge on the table. "I guess I won't see _him_ again, will I?"

John looked at Sherlock, who was ordering coffee at the bar. Even though his back was turned, the doctor knew he was listening in. "You never know." He assured her. "Anything can happen."

She glanced up and smiled at his face. "You forgave him." She murmured. "Eventually. Too bad Oliver is slightly more stubborn. Scottish genes and all that."

"The Watsons are Scottish too." John defended himself. "We have our own tartan!"

She quirked a brow. "There are roughly sixty-four thousand McLaughlins in the US. They have their own tartan, yet they're all as American as going out to eat hot wings and worshipping a flag." John frowned at the random fact, but she continued. "Oliver was born and raised in the highlands by stern Catholics. He has a mind of his own and he's proud of it. He won't come around that easily."

"Fair point." John glanced out the window, spotting the sleek black car stopping at the curb. "They're here." He watched as the elderly couple stepped out, Mr Holmes waving kindly as he spotted John.

"Shit." She ducked under the table. "Send them away. I can't do this."

"Nonsense." Sherlock plopped a coffee cup down in front of her. "You've survived worse. Now stand up straight and try not to think about killing them. _Mummy will know._ "

She rolled her eyes, but stood, rubbing the wrinkles out of her shirt. "I've killed people." She mumbled, more to herself than to anyone else. "I have viciously murdered many men, I have infiltrated foreign countries and broken into top-secret facilities. I have-"

"SHERRY!"

" _Oh, God_."

Both her parents flew at her, her mother nearly knocking her over when she hugged her. Sherlock barely saved her, holding her up with a hand on her back until their father engulfed her from behind.

They were soaking her shirt. Even her father, uncharacteristically, was tearing up, rubbing his face on her hat. John suddenly understood the need for a beanie.

"Oh, _Sherry_." Her mother sobbed, hugging her tight. The doctor saw her white-knuckled response, trying to hide the pain of broken ribs from her mother. Completely understandable, in a situation like this. Not advisable, not when she was still healing from all the other stuff, too. He'd never gotten the chance to look her over, but he could imagine the pain.

Sherlock seemed to think the same thing. "There's coffee." He gestured to the cups on the table and managed to extract his sister from their hold, setting her firmly on a plastic chair. "I'm sure you have questions."

"Oh, don't be so _formal_." Their mother admonished, still sniffing. She sat down next to her daughter, her husband on the other side. "We're not the _queen_."

John chuckled. "Thank god. We'd be arrested for public indecency."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "I was fully covered."

"It was a sheet!"

"Now there is a story I'd like to hear." She smirked at the doctor.

"Now, don't deflect, young lady." Her father chastised. "Where have you _been_?"

She sipped her coffee. "My undercover operation went south." She explained. "I was stuck in deep cover for years before I managed to make it out."

"Oh _sweetie_." Mr Holmes squeezed her shoulder. He studied her face. "You look dreadful."

"Mrs Hudson is already feeding me up, don't worry." She took a big gulp of her coffee. "Between the scones and Mycroft banning me from all activities, I'll be all right."

Mrs Holmes petted her head, seemingly unable to keep her hands off of her daughter. "Oh dear. How did Oliver, react? He must've been thrilled to see you back."

She sighed, looking at her cup. "Not _thrilled_ as such, no. He-" She scraped her throat. "-he was quite angry. Can't quite blame him."

"He hurt you." Mr Holmes' face darkened and suddenly, John understood where Sherlock got his temper. The old man looked like he could murder someone, preferably a tall, broad Scotsman. For a brief moment, the doctor had a vision of the grey, slightly hunched old man, threatening the big ginger head. He didn't think it would go over well.

"I'm fine, dad." She smiled at the man, and then proceeded to show how _fine_ she was by having a vigorous coughing fit. It took her almost five minutes to recover, and her father slamming on her back didn't help. Eventually, she recovered and they spent the rest of lunch talking, Mrs and Mr Holmes providing her daughter with all kinds of titbits of information from the past six years. At the end of the meeting, John was mostly laughing, Sherlock's eyes was shining with merriment, and even   
Sherrin bore the shadow of a smile. Eventually, they stood, Sherlock announcing they still had a case to wrap up. Their parents hugged them before getting into another black car.

Sherrin sighed. "That went... well." She sounded slightly surprised. "Definitely better than Oliver."

"Yeah." Sherlock patted her on the shoulder. "Come on, Lestrade contacted me. He needs more details on that name list." They went inside, working until John was called away by dinner with his wife. Neither man noticed the thoughtful look she gave the doctor as he left the building.

*/~\\*/~\\*

The next two weeks went by in a monotonous blur. John came over nearly every day to help Sherlock translate Sherrin's written notes into legible texts and forms. He made tea and lunch for moth of them, making sure Sherrin ate at least a bit. Even though she seemed reluctant to eat anything he made, she practically devoured Mrs Hudson's daily dose of sweet, sugary treats. The landlady was extremely pleased.

The world seemed oddly right, for once. John wondered about it much in the time he got as he copied notes, wondered how things could be so wrong and yet so right. He was an expecting father, solving cases with his best friend and his newfound sister. He had a wife to go home to, one who made dinner for him and hung his coat and doted on him as he watched television.

Still trying to earn his forgiveness.

His child was inside a known killer. He didn't love his wife, not anymore. His best friend was still healing from his time away, from nearly dying, from a drugs overdose. His best friend's sister was still bruised, battered. The one time John slept over he'd been awoken by Sherlock's cries. He'd sped into the bedroom to find his friend tangled in the sheets, sitting up, still sleeping and delirious, Sherrinford tucked in a corner of the room, trembling and mumbling to herself. It had taken too long to wake them both up.

He never slept over after that.

It was a gloomy Thursday, roughly two weeks after Oliver's visit, when things started to fall apart. John was tapping away on his laptop, muttering the words to himself, when his phone rang in Sherrin's hands. She'd been checking something on Maps, but when Mary's picture came on, she nearly dropped it. Schooling her features, she tossed it to him and he answered.

"Yeah?" John listened for a minute. "I'll be right there." He hung up, standing and rushing to his coat. "Mary's in labour."

Sherlock stood as well, moving to grab his own coat before turning and looking at his sister, indecisive.

Her pensive look turned into one of irritation. " _Go!_ "

He smirked brightly, nodded, and followed his doctor out.

Sherrin fell back onto the cushions, a frown on her face. She adapted her brother's thinking face. This was an interesting development, indeed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me waaaaaaaay longer than I wanted it to. it's a bit slow for my tastes, too, but the next part will be action packed. :)


	3. Part three: Deja-vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, it's almost if this has happened before. They've danced with the devil countless of times.  
> Only this time, the outcome isn't certain...

It was a girl. A very lovely, very tiny little girl, wrapped in a soft, pink blanket. Mary had passed out almost right after the delivery, but Sherlock had been on high alert, pacing in front of the door of the delivery room nervously until John came out with his little prize.

His mind stilled.

He stared at the little face as John carefully placed the bundle in his arms, and every thought disappeared. He didn't even think to hide the big smile breaking through on his face as she borrowed into his arms. John smiled up at his friend, wishing he'd brought a camera. Maybe he could bugger Mycroft for the CCTV footage later.

"Sherlock, meet Minnie." He scraped his throat, nearly choking up. "Your goddaughter."

Sherlock frowned. "Minnie?" He was captivated by those big, blue eyes, open now and staring at him. He knew nothing of babies. Should read up soon.

"From Wilhelmina." John smiled as his friends giant, fuzzy brain made the connection.

"William." Sherlock tore his now-burning eyes away to stare at his doctor. "Really."

"Yes." John stroked his daughter's face. "Really."

It seemed like, even as small as she was, Minnie had already righted the world a bit.

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

Hours later, Mary had awakened and they were brought to see her. She got to hold her little girl and Sherlock still couldn't keep his eyes off of the little face, couldn't stop smiling.

John eventually gave up pretending he didn't find it adorable. "You're infatuated with her, aren't you?"

"You named her _William_." He marvelled. "Babies are fascinating."

Mary smiled at him. "Wilhelmina." She corrected. "We still need to decide on a second name." She glanced at the doctor. "John likes _Georgia_." She made a face. "I prefer Evangeline."

 _Evangeline_. Sherlock is struck by an ancient memory, his seven-year-old body jumping up from a hospital chair so high his feet couldn't touch the ground, his mother in a hospital bed, his father kneeling down to show him a squirming baby. "Say hello to Evie." His father had said, brightly smiling. His mother had scoffed from the bed. "Sherry." She corrected.

"That's Sherrin's name." He blurted, his defences down and his brain still fuzzy. John chuckled.

"Naming her after two Holmes siblings. She'd probably love that." He nodded, having made a decision. "Evangeline it is."

Mary was silent, looking down at her daughter, capturing her little fist in her bigger hand. "Who's Sherrin?" She asked, her tone slightly too casual. John smiled at her.

"The client we've been working for. She's Sherlock's long-lost sister, apparently."

There was a pause before Mary smiled. "How nice!" She looked down at her baby. "So Evangeline it is, then?"

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

 _Vernuft_ was a smoky pub squeezed between two shops in south-London. There was an old, flickering neon sign of a pin-up woman in the window, the outside sign was chipped, and the sign was always turned on 'closed'. Inside, people were playing poker and blackjack at several tables, an abandoned piano standing in the corner. The sole employee and owner of the pub managed the bar, the only food he served were cheap nuts and chips. The only reason the pub still existed was that the people visiting were too dangerous for the police to interfere with.

They had visited it together too many times.

Oliver sat at the bar, his fifth whisky in front of him. The barman wiped down a wet spot near him, not glancing at his miserable form.

"Ready to talk about it?" He rumbled, his deep voice thick with smoke and rich with liquor.

Oliver sighed. "No." He took a gulp. "Never."

"All right." The tender danced around his bar, refilling a few glasses for some patrons at a table. "This has nothing to do with that bird of yours, does it?"

Oliver glared at him. "She wasn't _my_ bird." He muttered.

The bartender chuckled. "Right. Way out of your league." He brought the drinks to the table and returned. "So what did she do, then? I only see you every blue moon for years and now you've been here every night for the past two!"

" _Four weeks_." He hissed. "It's been four weeks."

"Still, a hell of a long time to get pissed every night." The barkeep pulled up a chair, sat down in front of him. "Look, this chick... Sherry? I like her, too. Everyone here does. She put all of us in our place and she's one _hell_ of a poker player. But she's not been here in years, and now you're here, getting pissed. So what's happening?" Surprisingly, he took a bottle of single malt and poured himself two fingers.

"She left." Oliver sighed deeply. "Then she returned." He rested his head on the bar, the cool stone against his heated face. "I may have overreacted." His drunken brain was willing to admit.

"Really?" The barkeep sounded mildly shocked. "She left you? I always expected you to find some nice skirt to run after. Never expected her to bail."

His head shot up. "She didn't _bail_." He growled. "She'd never."

The keep smirked. "Then it must've been you."

" _No_." Oliver drained the glass and hurled it at the keep, broadly missing the man and shattering it against the wall. He stood, pulled out the papers he had in his trouser pockets, and slammed them on the bar before storming out.

 _His fault_. He was sure it wasn't _his fault_. All those years ago, they'd set up the plan _together_. They filled in all the papers _together_. They'd created a fake history for her, _together._ They'd travelled to Estonia _together_. And then she'd gone under.

 _Alone_.

Nothing had ever been _his fault_.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a wolf-whistle. He turned and spotted a lady, dressed in a trench coat and red high heels. Her bottle-blond hair was up in a loose bun and her lips were painted bright red. She looked like she wanted to be paid.

Still, it had been a stressful few weeks.

He smirked and approached her. "Like what you see, babe?"

She pressed up against him. "Depends." She purred. "What have you got to offer?"

 _Yup, definitely an hooker._ "two-hundred?"

"Oh." She leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I _do_ like that." Her lips touched his shell briefly, and he could just imagine the bright red print they left. "I have a place nearby..."

"Perfect." His hand moved to her behind. Squeezed it. "Show me the way."

She moved back a bit, smiled sweetly. "Pay up front, sugar."

He rolled his eyes, but pulled out his wallet for the money. "Of course, darling." He smirked.

Her smile turned into a leer, and before his drunken brain caught up, a needle was planted firmly in his neck, plunger down all the way, and as the world turned black, his muddied brain had time to just start one thought.

_Oh, shi-_

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

"Shouldn't you be going home now?" Sherrin asked, looking up from where she'd been preparing an intricate dish. _It's just science_ , she'd said when John had spluttered the first time she picked up a pan to make a stir-fry. Now, she was preparing some creamy sauce to be warmed up the next morning, along with some fruity caramel goo that Sherlock loved. John was on the couch with his daughter asleep on his chest, dozing off himself. He roused to answer her.

"Mary's staying over with a friend." He mumbled. "We're staying here."

She chuckled. "Between the three of us, we need to start paying rent." She turned the stove off, letting the sauce cool. "Do you think it's weird to make pancake batter at-" She checked her phone, "-eleven thirty?"

John hummed. "You're making the sauce." He remarked. He stood. "Min and I are turning in. Tell Sherlock to save some breakfast, when he returns."

"Will do." She stirred her goo, keeping it simmering. "I'll keep the noise down."

John smiled at her and moved up to his old room, turning off most of the lights on the way. Mrs Hudson, amazing as she was, had used the ample space in his room to cram in a crib with cupboards beneath it, cramming it with diapers and wipes and a few sets of spare clothes, and a baby monitor set. Now, whenever John and Minnie were here and the doctor had to stay out late for a case, the little girl could sleep over under close supervision. So far, it had only happened once, and John was in the room with her. Somehow, the doctor slept better in his old room at Baker Street, He didn't want to think too much about it, though, especially now, when he curled up under  the covers.

Downstairs, Sherrin whistled softly as she cleaned away the equipment she'd used. There was something calming in the simple chemistry of cooking, something that helped her to focus, and not think of _him_ or _her_ , of any of the circumstances she was in. She knew she had to act quickly, couldn't stay in hiding forever, but at least for now she had the ruse of healing injuries. Soon, though, she'd have to try to reconnect with Oliver, move to her own place, get back to her job. Deal with the little conundrum that was Amelia.

She poured herself a glass of water with shaking hands. She still wasn't sure, she saw faces all the time, but when she saw it _so close_... She didn't dare investigate it. Maybe she should talk to her brother about it, maybe she should pay her old partner a visit. But the chances of being shot town were too high.

Her phone beeped. Thinking it was Sherlock, she took it. A photo message. Opened it.

The picture took a moment to load. The message beneath it was frightening enough, though;

_Found your pet XOXO_

The photo loaded. She dropped the phone, stepping back as it shattered on the floor. The back smashed off and the battery fell out so the screen went black, but the image was burned into her mind. A splash of orange against a white and red background. Freckles seemed shockingly dark against pale skin, irises just a faint ring of grey-green around relaxed pools of black, mouth slack and slightly open. He was out cold, or worse.

She fell to her knees, choking. Scrambled for her phone. Reassembled it clumsily. Turned it on. Dialled 7.

"Sherlock." She took deep breaths, pressing back the sobs trying to escape, "Come home. _Now_." A single sob broke out before she disconnected, slamming the devilish device to the tiled floor, again, again and again, until the screen came out in many tiny pieces. Erase the image.

It didn't work.

A pair of strong, sturdy hands pulled the corpse of the device out of her hands, pulled her back to hunch against the fridge, covered her in warmth. John's face appeared in her field of vision, looking alarmed. His lips were moving, but the rushing in her ears was too loud to hear him. She could see his frown, feel his hands on her shoulders, his fingers leaving an unpleasant burning trail on her skin. Her hands covered her ears, giving her a focus point, closing out the sensation of falling, of failing, making the world slightly less fuzzy.

Her brain slowed a bit, and she managed to focus on his lips.

"-down. Calm down. You'll wake Min." He smiled as he saw her eyes become clearer. "There you are. What happened? Are you all right?"

She shook her head vehemently, closing her eyes until the storm in her brain had settled a bit. "They took him." She whispered. " _She took him_." She stood and looked at the phone on the floor. "And I just destroyed our only evidence. _Shit_." She took a deep breath, trying to find her footing. "Could you call Mycroft? Tell him it's an emergency."

"Right." He pulled out his phone. "Then will you tell me what's going on?" He still looked very worried, and with a pang she realised she'd somehow gained another brother in the past few weeks. Another mind that would worry about her. A bit of a turnabout from the man that pinned her to a table, but she didn't have much time to worry about it. _She'd taken him_.

The outside door slammed closed, and Sherlock came bounding up the stairs, looking wild. "What's going on?" He was frantic, but when he spotted the phone, he stilled. "What happened?"

"She took him." She repeated. "Amelia. Oliver. She-" She took a deep breath, "She sent a picture."

Sherlock rushed to the device and picked it up, studying it. "We can salvage it." He concluded. "Was it... graphic?"

"No." She shook her head. "It was... there was blood, but he was... out. His eyes were open, he was pale-" Her voice broke as the image threatened to consume her again. John grounded her, a hand on her shoulder, and she sighed. "We need a crisis team." She decided, slipping into a persona she'd abandoned years ago. "Get me access to CCTV, government data, everything. Someone needs to go to his apartment, check for evidence, someone needs to retrace his steps in the last few days." She sighed. " _Shit_ , we haven't seen him in a month. _Who knows_ how long he's been gone?"

"Probably recent." Sherlock assured her. "Amelia is a sadist. She'd let you know sooner if she'd had him for a while."

"She's not a _sadist_ , Sherlock." She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. "She's a- _fuck_ , she's a psychopath."

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

Mycroft arrived half an hour later, with Anthea and a few of his minions in tow. He seemed reluctant, his face sour, but he set up a base at the kitchen table to go over CCTV. Sherlock agreed to take John to Oliver's place to look for anything that could help, while Sherrin hacked into his government account and sifted through his recent cases to look for potential culprits. They worked through the night, right to the moment Min startled Mycroft with her wails.

" _For god's sake_ , Anthea, do something about that." He grouched, and his PA got up, uncertain.

"Sit." Sherrin ordered, getting up herself. "Get the coffee going, crack a few eggs, make pancake batter or something. Breakfast." She turned the water on and measured out a bottle of baby milk. "That has to be lukewarm. Be right back." She went up and retrieved the baby, cleaning her up and dressing her in some clean clothes. Moving back down, she smirked at Mycroft's shocked face.

"What?"

"When did you learn about _babies?_ " He seemed astonished. She shrugged.

"It's basic knowledge, Myc." She took the prepared bottle and offered it to the creature squirming in her arms. "Even you could do it." She sat back down in front of her laptop, and continued reading the document she'd been working on.

"Should you be doing that?" Mycroft asked, eyeing the bundle suspiciously. "Aren't those documents sensitive?"

Sherrin scoffed. "She's barely a week old. She can't read yet."

Mycroft shrugged. "You  were very early. So was Sherlock."

"She is _a week old_. She doesn't even have a concept of faces yet." She smiled at Anthea as the woman deposited a cup of coffee near her elbow. "She won't sell state secrets, don't worry."

She fed the little bundle of joy as she read on, ignoring the wide-eyed looks Mycroft kept giving her. They couldn't afford anyone to stop to feed the baby, and the little girl needed the sustenance. She'd seen John feed the girl in the past week, and it wasn't hard. Her brother should stop staring and hang out more with people. Preferably single people of his own age, with kids or without. Either way would be good for his social life.

She finished the bottle, burped the baby. Held her against her chest as she fell back asleep. As she was scanning through his old files, she didn't find anything off, no open cases or missing targets. Just six years of a job well done. He'd managed well without her. She felt a stab of near-physical pain as she came to the one open case in the past six years - _None of the responsible have been apprehended. Active agent (#7437793824 - S. E. Holmes) is still missing in action. Actions to pull back have been denied by Head Offices._

She blinked at the screen. "Mycroft." She waved him over and showed the last line. "You need to run a scan in Head Offices."

He nodded. "Later." He promised. "Let's find your _partner_ first." He turned to the CCTV footage. "We have him in south London. He seems to have been taken off the street by a woman. Can't get her face, though."

She nodded. "I have an inkling on who-"

Her new phone beeped. The minion that had been analysing the picture handed it to her and she opened the new message.

_Ain't he pretty? XOXO_

She didn't feel her heart drop. Instead, she felt it shrink, stiffen and grow ice cold as all the blood left it, streaming to her head to fuel the rage behind her eyes.  There was a photo, again, though this one was less cropped. His upper body was  visible, his well-defined muscles peeking out from a sliced open, stained shirt. There was a long cut from his collar to his stomach, the tip of a knife just visible in a lower corner of the shot. There were lines of blood beading from the cut.

 _Bleeding_. She let out a breath of unexpected relief. _Bleeding means he's alive_. She tossed the phone to Mycroft. "See if you can get anything off the knife or the background." She ordered. "I'll call Sherlock. See what he has."

Sherlock, as it turned out, had nothing. The only thing he and John had found was a potential girlfriend, a Russian woman, but the lady hadn't seen Oliver in six weeks. They were just returning home, and John was urging to pick up breakfast in the background. Sherrin told them to pick up extra, then checked the time. She put Min back in her crib and delivered the monitor to the landlady, taking moment to collect herself. She needed to tell them, and soon.

But maybe not just yet.

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

When the food came, everyone took a sort-of break to have a quick bite. Soon after, they went back to work, analysing the photos and searching for any scrap they could find. At lunch, another message came through. The picture, this time, was an extreme close-up of a set of knuckles, faint scrapes and bruises showing on fair skin.

_It's a hard-knock life. XOXO_

She'd had enough. Before anyone could stop her, she typed a message back.

_What do you want?_

A reply was almost instantaneous. No picture message, no dreadful images, just six words. They chilled her to the bone.

_Hon, you know what I want. XOXO_

Her voice rung in her ears. She could see her sauntering her way, towering over her in a black dress as she was forced to kneel, her knees raw from crawling around. _"Hon, you know what I want_. _"_ Her sweet smile was worse than any sneer. " _I want you to go out there and woo them, show off your pretty arse. Make me some money._ " The message was clear, this time. _I want you back._ She'd take her and disappear again, and ruin her for good. She'd probably not even let Oliver go, just shoot him. Leave no witness, no survivors.

Sherrin sighed. Whatever happened, she needed to get Oliver out of there. Even if he wanted nothing to do with her, she couldn't afford collateral damage. Even if this was the last she ever did for him, _she needed him to live._

_The first thing he did to me at our reunion was trying to kill me. You have no leverage._

She stared at her phone for a long moment before hitting 'send'.  Maybe, if she could provoke her, she would make a mistake and they could catch her. Maybe they could lure her out of hiding.

_Like that matters. You love him, hon. XOXO_

She swallowed at the message. Then, without a word, she stood and walked up the stairs. She snapped a photo of the baby sleeping in her crib and sent it, making sure to delete the message off of her phone after she did.

_You love them. I haven't told them yet, you know. Nor have I harmed them._

The answer was instantaneous.

_Oh, darling, you wouldn't harm a baby. Never in your life. XOXO_

She moved down the stairs, hunting for her coat as she typed out her final text of the conversation.

_'Leverage', bitch._

"Sherlock." She slipped into her coat. "We're going to a bar tonight. Until then, you guys can stand down." She checked that she had her wallet. "I need to run some errands."

Mycroft stood, Anthea already moving to her side, but she waved them off. "I won't do anything stupid." She wasn't an idiot. She was still healing; she wasn't capable of taking on a knife-wielding assassin on her own. She just needed a few things for their trip to the pub, just in case. She needed some stuff to make sure she'd be able to work through the night, too, and some stuff to pay for information. Not everyone accepted cash. If someone tagged along, however, the dealers would suspect something was wrong. Besides, Mycroft would never let her buy anything. Sherlock had ruined that option.

Before anyone could stop her, she was out the door.

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

Around seven o'clock, she returned, her pockets full of stuff her brothers shouldn't know about, along with some other supplies.  She'd texted her brother, and they were waiting for her on the front steps. John looked nervous.

"Mary won't respond to my texts." He said, frowning. "Do you think she-"

"She's probably fine." She assured, a weak smile on her lips. "She misplaced her phone, or the battery died, or she forgot to answer... on average, people forget to respond to texts or respond late eighty percent of the time." The numbers were completely made up, but they seemed to calm the doctor down, so she guided them to the Underground station, taking the tube to the South. Where they were going, a cab would stand out like a dog in a catnip factory.

They walked the ten minutes from the underground to the pub, and the longer they walked, the more uncomfortable John felt between the lived-out buildings and dark alleyways. Sherlock seemed to be on high alert, as well, scanning every window and alcove, but Sherrin seemed to be perfectly at ease, striding down the roads, weaving her way through the dark easily. Eventually, they were stood in front of the door of a beat-down pub.

Sherrin pressed a wad of cash and a small baggie in John's hand. "See if you can get anything from the patrons about Oliver." She ordered. "I'll talk to the bar." She opened the door, a waft of smoke meeting them. Sherlock took a deep, happy breath as they entered.

Sherrin made a beeline for the bar. The barman that was there, a tall, broad, slightly pudgy bald man with keen eyes, spotted her and stopped cleaning, already pulling out a glass to serve her a drink.

"Snow White." He smirked at her as she climbed onto a stool, pouring her two fingers of whisky. "Didn't bring your huntsman, this time?" He studied her face, then added another splash. "On the house."

"Actually, no." She looked over her shoulder at the other two. "Just a bunch of dwarves." She sipped the liquid, savouring the burn. She hadn't had a drink in forever, and no matter how sleazy, this pub only served the best liquor. "Do you mind?"

The keep frowned. "Is that that detective? The one with the _hat_?" He pulled her glass out of her reach, looking offended. "Did you bring _bottles_ in here?!"

"They're not _bottles_." She assured him, snatching her glass back. "They're friends, believe it or not. Here to help me look for something."

"Really?" He placed the bottles back. "Misplaced a hummingbird, _darling_?"

"I wish." She rolled her eyes, took a big swig. "I seem to have misplaced my _huntsman_." She admitted. "But a birdie told me he was here yesterday."

The keep nodded. "He was here." He moved to the register, rummaging through the stack of papers there. "Was in quite a state. Poured himself full of booze and then left." He placed the papers on the bar; a few pin tickets, a Tesco receipt, and a crumpled letter. "He paid with this. I figured he'd come back, but he hasn't yet."

"He won't." She pulled out her wallet, placed a fifty pound bill on the counter, and took a look at the papers. "Not tonight, at least."

The tickets were all small amounts, enough for take-away dinners and delivered pizza. The receipt was for microwave meals, two bottles of red, and Haribo.

The letter, she didn't even need to open to recognise.

She shoved it all in her coat. "Any regulars that could've seen him leave?"

The barkeep nodded. "François left around eleven. The Butcher came in just after Huntsman left, and I believe Tramp had a scuffle out there last night." He winked at her. "Buy 'em a drink, they might talk. You're a more familiar face."

"Right." She tapped the money on the bar. "Buy them a drink on me, they're hopeless at this." She stood and pointed Sherlock and John to the bar, moving to one of the poker tables. The men instantly dealt her in.

"François." She greeted the man next to her. "You here last night?" She knew how these people worked, and they knew how she worked, so she saved them both some time by cutting to the chase. The man next to her nodded, quirking a brow at her. She checked her cards, threw a ten-pound note on the table. "Did you see Huntsman leave?"

"Oui." He went along with her. "Pourquoi voulez-vous savoir ça?"

She understood the implications; they were the only two at the table speaking French. Something the others shouldn't know, perhaps?

"Etait-il avec personne?" She asked. She had an inkling about the answer, a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach that made her slightly sick.

"Oui." He shrugged. "Une pute." Before she asked her next question, he continued, "Blone. Je n'ai vu son visage."

"All right." She nodded, folded, and stood. "Merçi. Ils ont cartes terribles. Donne trop d'argent." She moved to the next table with a pat on his shoulder. Blond. A woman, posing as a whore. It would've been too easy to lure him in.

She moved to a corner of the room, to where a man was sitting alone at a table.

"Evening."

The man chuckled at her. "Welcome back, queenie." He studied her as she sat down. "You look like shit."

"You smell like sewer." She pulled one of her left-over baggies out of her coat, placing it on the table under her cupped palm. "Did you see a whore last night?" She cringed at her wording, then rephrased, "A blond one, outside here? With Huntsman, maybe?"

"Oh, yes." He smiled brightly, eyeing her hand. "Pretty birdie. Blond, blue eyes. Fierce. Kicked me in the balls."

"Good on her." She pulled out her phone with her free hand. "Would you recognise her if you saw her?" She looked For Mary's Facebook picture. "Was it her?"

"Yeah." His eyes turned dreamy. "birdie..."

She nodded. "Did she do anything else? Say anything?"

"Birdie..."

She lifted the baggie, swung it in front of him. " _Focus._ Anything else?"

He nodded vigorously. "Black van." He reported. "Number plate spelt LOSER. I don't remember the numbers." He frowned deeply for a long moment. "Ulysses rental. Big sticker."

"Good boy." She tossed him the baggie, and placed another one on the table for good measure. He'd been a great help, as always. She glanced at the bar, where her brother was in deep conversation with the barkeep, John listening intently. The barkeep met her eyes for a second, and she motioned silence as she stood. She had enough information to search for the number plate, ask the company where the van was. Track down her foe and save the damsel.

She was going in alone, after all. Like always.

Hopefully, this time, she didn't come out alone.

\\*/~\\*/~\\*/

The van was outside an abandoned warehouse. _How cliché,_ she thought as she found her way inside the building. Her phone was on silent, a cheap flashlight-keychain in her hand at the ready. The moment Sherlock would notice she was gone, Mycroft would track her down, which gave her roughly twenty minutes to find Oliver and take out Amelia, and hopefully stay alive in the meantime.

She found a broken window and slipped through, keeping her footfall light and silent, but still, the lights turned on after she'd  taken only a few steps inside.

" _Finally,_ darling, I thought you'd never come." Mary stood in the middle of the giant hall, dressed in black, training a gun at her chest. Behind her, sitting chained to a rusty metal chair, unconscious, was her ex-friend. She scanned him quickly, taking in everything. He was bloodied and bruised, the cut over his chest and stomach the worst of it all, but didn't seem to be lethally wounded. She moved a bit closer to her foe.

"How could I not?" She rumbled, eyeing the weapon. "I do hate collateral damage." Slowly moving closer, she kept talking. "How far along did you plan it?" She asked, "Did you romance John with me in the back of your mind? Did you play nice to Sherlock thinking I'd return one day? Must've been a shock when Cam found you. You couldn't let Sherlock know, could you? No, by then you'd grown... _attached._ " She spit the word. By now, she was only a foot away from her. Amelia thumbed off the safety.

"Doesn't matter now." She smiled sweetly. "I have you."

Sherrin glared at her, keeping the gun in her peripheral. "Not yet." She smirked. "The cavalry will be here within twenty minutes. We will get you, this time."

"Really." She tipped her head. "I think you'll just come quietly." Her hand turned, training the gun on the man in the chair. " _leverage._ "

Sherrin swallowed. "Bluff." She scanned her foe, watching as her finger tensed on the trigger. Slowly, in the background of her mind, she sensed him stir. Mary would take the shot. "I'm not coming with you for _him_."

"Yet you're here." She smirked meanly, glancing at the man. "Oh, look, he's waking up. _Cute_."

" _Shut up._ " She grated her teeth. Even without her sneers, she realised the situation was getting out of hand. If Oliver woke up, he'd be a conscious witness, one who would be able to give an exact description of Mary and would be able to link her to Amelia. She wouldn't let that happen.

In the far distance, she could hear the faint sound of sirens.

"Time is running out." Amelia smirked. "Make a choice, Honey. Quickly."

Sherrin panicked. Help was so close, and there was no way Amelia would be able to dispose of them both _and_ get away in time. If she could just stall a little, They'd get her no matter what.

"Three..." She could see the steadiness in her hand, the tendons in her finger where it was curled around the trigger. "Two..." The gun wasn't trained on his heart; rather, it was trained on his head, on his brain. Less chance of survival, that way. She wouldn't make the same mistakes twice. "One..." Her finger turned slightly whiter as she put pressure on the trigger, ready to fire.

"NO!" On instinct, she jumped forward, grabbing for the gun. She grabbed it with both hands, desperately fighting to turn it away from its target. She snarled, trying to work her to the ground. _She couldn't kill him_. _She wouldn't_.

A shot rang out.

For a moment, Sherrin panicked, eyes shooting to Oliver. _He's fine. Thank heavens he's fine_.

Then the pain set in. She staggered back a bit, surprised. Sadly, the burning sensation in her stomach was a familiar one. She was shot before, once, in her arm. The bullet had gone through and through, but missed her major artery. It had healed within weeks.

The pain was much worse, now. It felt like her gut was on fire, as if her bowels were being ripped out. She looked down, seeing the dark stain as it spread through her shirt. She gasped, falling to her knees, staring up at the woman in front of her. Sirens blared nearby.

Mary glared at her, but dropped the gun and turned. The sound of her heeled feet against concrete disappeared into the distance. She lay down on her side, pressing her hand to her wound. It was so wet, so warm, and it was still spreading. She was struggling to breathe through the pain.

 _Soft stomach tissue._ Her brain supplied. _Punctured abdomen, punctured bowels lead to leakage which cause infections resulting in death._ A sound escaped her throat as the edge of her vision turned blurry. _The human body can lose a litre of blood before damage is done._ She was losing a lot more, she was sure of it. She groaned as the world started to move, turn, twist. Something in the back of her mind moved.

"...Snow?"

 _At least he was all right_. She closed her eyes. _God, if this is the end, please make it quick._

Blackness came as a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I should add more tags for this chapter. Let me know if you think of something I should add.


	4. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary would pay for it, that much was certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took waaay too long to get out.

_Dear Oliver,_

_You have no idea how many times I've written and rewritten this letter in my mind. There are so many different ways I'd like to bring this news, but all of them seem wrong, so I'll just do this the simple way. Hello. In case you didn't recognise the handwriting yet, it's me, Sherrin. I'm still alive. I've spent the last years in deep cover, unable to get out. I'm sorry I didn't contact you sooner. I would have if I could, believe me._

_I really hope you'll be willing to talk to me, to sit down and let me explain why it took me so long to return. I really hope you're willing to work with me to find a solution to problems that have arisen during my time away._

_I miss you. Honestly. I've missed you so much. I really want to talk to you, soon. Hopefully you want to talk to me, too. I kind of want to see your face._

_(As I'm writing this, I can see why Mycroft always scoffs at my sentimentality. Good thing to know you always smiled at it.)_

_At the moment, I'm staying at 221B Baker Street, with Sherlock. Please come and visit me there. I'm looking forward to your visit._

_Love,_

_Sherrin._

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

Sherlock thoroughly hated hospitals. When he and John got hurt, the visits were always filled with long waits and tedious forms and lines of questioning. Last time he was forced to stay here, he'd nearly died trying to get away. Now, he was in a plastic chair, waiting anxiously in front of an operating room as his only sister was laying on a table being dug open by doctors trying to save her.

He fucking hated hospitals.

John was standing at the room's door, trying to look inside. Sherlock was studying him, trying to gain any information from his doctor's face. He looked anguished, but that didn't have to mean anything. Neither of them had had much sleep the night before, and now the hour was getting close to sunrise. John got antsy and grumpy when he missed sleep, and that combined with intense stress of the past day made for an explosive combination.

The door opened and a doctor came out, sighing deeply. When he spotted John, he offered a tired smile. "We removed the bullet." He reported, "Stitched her up. The bullet nicked her colon and we need to watch for internal bleeding. She's already lost a lot of blood."

"But she's be all right?" John frowned, wondering if the doctor would tell the truth or soften the blow. The doctor took a deep breath, and John knew. He saw the faintly pitying look taking over his face, saw the sympathetic tilt of his mouth. He'd been to the school, he knew all the tactics.

"The bullet tore a big hole in her abdomen." The doctor explained. "There's a big chance of infections, and her body is already weak. We'll need to keep her here until we're sure her body can fight infections." He looked back into the room. "They're taking her to the IC now, but she's still out."

"Can we see her?"

The doctor nodded with a sad smile. "Of course. Room 407."

John moved to his friend, pulling him up with a smile and guiding him to the Intensive Care with a hand on his shoulder, trying to radiate strength into his detective's nearly-trembling body. His friend had been under a lot of stress, and he was barely holding himself up. He needed the rest, but John knew it was important he saw his sister. No matter how much he tried not to think about it, it might just be the last time.

When they got to the room, they plopped down in the plastic chairs at her bed and stared at her. She looked infinitely tiny, laying under soft white sheets, encased in fires and threats and with a thick tube down her throat. She was incredibly pale, her dark hair fanning out like a crown. She looked both eternally regal and ridiculously breakable. The heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, the intubation machine providing a strange, morbid kind of background music. Sherlock's chair scraped as he moved closer to the bed, folding her tiny hand in both of his. Red-eyed, he pressed a kiss to her wrist.

Without thinking about the implications, John scooted to wrap a protective arm around his friend's shoulder. They could both use the support.

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

Consciousness came swirling back to her in waves, gentle but forceful like a summer's sea, slowly bringing her back to her body. She lay a moment in darkness, recognising the beeping of the heart monitor, the uncomfortable scratch and stretch in her throat. Very slowly, she willed her eyelids to lift. She was met with the glaring white light of a hospital's TL.

Someone was holding her hand. She twitched her fingers, trying to grab back. She turned her head just the increment she could, expecting to see her brother, or her mother, or her father perhaps. Instead, she saw a head of messy, fire-red hair standing up every which way, his beard mostly-trimmed for the first time since she'd returned. Before she could stop herself, her eyes roamed over his body. He was wearing a t-shirt -band shirt, too big; lost and found- and he had a big bruise on his jaw, but he seemed to be fine. _Thank God_. His eyes were red, his smile watery and full of relief.

"Thank _Heavens_." He exhaled with a laugh, lifted her limp hand and pressed a kiss to it. " _Fuck,_ Snow, I thought we'd lost you again." He pressed his lips to her hand again. "Shit, I-" He met her eyes, biting his lower lip. "-I am so, _so sorry_. I got you into all this mess, and-" He looked like he'd been crying. He looked like he was about to cry. She didn't want him to cry, not when there was a piece of plastic lodged in her windpipe, keeping her from comforting him, from saying  _It'll be all right_.

"- _fuck_ , I nearly got you _killed_." His chocked a little, obviously holding down a sob. She started shaking her head, _no_ , but everything hurt too much and she was stuck watching him as he ripped his heart apart. "I'm so sorry, Snowy, This is my fault-"

 _No._ A growl-like sound escaped her throat, and he frowned at her. Understanding how she could communicate, she started wiggling her fingers in his. Slowly, painstakingly, she tapped out a message.

 _You didn't shoot me._ She looked up at him imploringly, and he offered a sad smile.

"I abused you." He sighed. "I got drunk and got myself kidnapped and you had to save me." He looked at their still-joined hands. "And then you got shot while I was too out of it to even stand."

The photos flashed in front of her eyes, the frighteningly pale hue of his skin, the slash going from his collar bone all the way down to beneath his belly button. The blood. _You were hurt_.

He let out a dry chuckle. "Fuck _that_ , you were shot."

She frowned, glaring at his chest, right where she imagined a line of gauze was covering the cut. _You were hurt._ She repeated, her fingers tapping a staccato on his wrist. Whatever they'd given her to stay under was wearing off and her mind was slowly clearing up, but as it did, the pain in her abdomen got worse, too. She was willing to ignore it, though, in favour of talking to him. It had been forever. Just listening to his voice was enough, for now.

"I'm _fine_." He assured her, letting go of her hand to rub at his chest with one hand. "It's just a scratch." He stared down at her, smiled softly, his eyes warming. "You really are amazing."

She lifted her hand, waiting for him to take it before tapping out _Am not._ He chuckled, ready to answer, when they heard scuffling in the hallway.

" _Shit_." Oliver looked panicked. "They'll _kill_ me." He glanced at the door, then to the window. They were already too close for him to escape into the hallway unseen, so he opened the window.

Sherrin watched, panic rising. He was about to leave her alone, about to disappear and she had no idea when or if she'd see him again, if the next time would be another bout of anger, if this entire meeting wasn't some drug-fuelled hallucination. She whined softly, struggling with her painful, uncooperative limbs to sit up. He shook his head at her fondly, moving to her bedside to push her back down.

"You are unbelievable." He rumbled, stroking his hand through her hair. "I'll be back, I promise." He smiled at her once more and leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss on her forehead. "I'm real." He stepped back. "And I'm sorry I have to leave, but Sherlock would murder me." He opened the window, looked back one last time. "I love you, Snow. See you soon."

He managed to climb out of sight just before the door opened.

She sighed through her nose as best as she could. When her brother was close enough to be in her field of vision, she quirked a brow at him. She reached her hand up, ignoring the aches, and tapped the plastic at her mouth. He winched in sympathy.

"Doctor says it can get out once they've checked you over." He sat down on the edge of the bed, Grabbing for her hand. "How're you doing?"

She managed a half-shrug, sort of. _Shot_. She tapped it out on his hand, and there was a pause as he pondered over the meaning of the taps. With a smudge of annoyance, She realised Sherlock had deleted his Morse code somewhere in the past six years. Instead, she drew a J on his wrist, repeating the pattern until her brother's face cleared.

"John."

The doctor moved to the detective's place, taking her hand in his. He looked slightly worried, so she started tapping right away.

_Testing 1 2 Testing 1 2 Testing 1 2 Test-_

John chuckled. "Mike's working." He reported, an amused smile on his lips. "How are you doing?"

 _I was shot._ She quirked her lips around the breathing tube. _It hurts. I am fine, though._

John glanced at the IV. "I could probably convince the doctors to give you morphine." He suggested, but she frowned at him. _Hallucinations._ She stared at the ceiling. Last time she was in the hospital, there had been a spider the size of a Smart car had been watching her from a corner of the room. The time before, a, eight-feet-tall green alien had stood next to her bed, muttering inanely the whole time. Her drugged-up hallucinations were even worse than her normal ones.

John nodded, as if he understood what she was thinking. "We'll get you some Oxy, then."

_Thank you._

Sherlock sat down on her other side, confident that John could give him her answers, and looked at her intently. "Sherrin, Mycroft is still looking for Amelia." He started. "But she's not in any database except yours. We need a description to find her."

Sherrin hesitated. For a description, she only needed to tap out four letters. It would completely shatter John, though, and she didn't fancy dealing with his anger and hurt while she was stuck in a hospital bed. She needed to tell them, but later. For now...

Her fingers moved hesitantly. _Oliver._ She tapped. _Where_. After a moment of hesitation, John relayed the question. Sherlock's face darkened at the unwelcome change of subject.

"We haven't spoken to him yet." He growled. "He checked out of the hospital before you awoke. He's gone."

She nodded faintly. Of course, Oliver would manage to slip past anyone, would try to avoid conflict with her brother at any cost, but some day very soon, the two would have to engage in conversation. Hopefully, it wouldn't end in some shouting match, or causalities. Sherlock was completely capable of making the life of _anyone_ who earned his wrath unbearable, and at the moment, Oliver was the focus point of every plot for murder her brother devised. Perhaps she should defuse the bomb a bit before she allowed Oliver to come over...

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

About a week later, John came into her room, a worried frown on his face as he sagged down in the chair next to her bed. She sat up a bit, winching as her position pulled on the stitches, and studied him. He looked like he hadn't slept since the shooting, walking on his last legs and basically asleep on his feet.

It was time.

"Could you do me a favour?" She asked, her voice rasping through her dry throat. He handed her a glass, she took a sip. "Get Sherlock and Mycroft here. I-" She swallowed. "I remembered something about the shooting that might be useful."

John nodded, pulling out his phone and texting both men. "They'll be here in a minute." He settled in a bit more, looking intrigued and slightly more awake. "What do you remember?"

"I'd rather tell it just once." She looked out of the window. "It might take a while to explain, I don't want to go through the whole thing twice." A bird hooted outside. "Could you open the window?" She asked, "The hospital stench is getting to me."

"Sure." John stood, moving to the window and opening it before sinking to the chair once more. They sat in silence while the wind blew outside, blowing in a couple of leafs and some sand. "Staff won't be happy with the mess." John winched. "Some nurse would have to clean it up..." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Mary's been gone for a week." He choked on his words. "Gone."

"I'm sure she'll turn up somewhere." She tried consoling him. "I'll look into it if you like, when I get back to Baker Street." She studied his face for a second. "How's Min?"

Almost instantly, a smile appeared on his face, and he pulled out his phone to show her some pictures. "She's doing great." He showed her a picture of that morning, his little princess safely swaddled and asleep- in a certain consulting detective's arms. Sherlock looked down at the little girl, an unguarded smile on his face and his curls falling in front of his eyes. "Sherlock is amazing with her. I never expected him to- you know..."

"Not kill her?" Sherrin smiled. "My parents were the same way when I came around. Sherlock was already... different, back then. They were afraid he would reject me, but-" She looked around the room. "Did Mycroft bring my wallet here?"

John handed it to her, and she opened it, pulling out a small photo and handing it to him. "This was our first encounter."

John looked down. The photo showed a little boy sitting on a big chair, his feet not even reaching the ground, a head full of unruly curls bent over a bundle of sheets. Beneath it all, a big, childlike, open-mouthed smile was clearly visible. "He loves you."

"I know." She smiled at the photo. "He has from the moment he met me. Just like-" She swallowed, looked out of the window. John frowned at her, worried.

"Oliver is not a bad man, John." She spoke, worrying her lip. "No matter what you've been thinking of him, he's not a bad man. He is loyal, he cares for me. But I've been gone for six years, and my returning was a shock for him, too. Still, I'm sure he'd take a bullet for me. Or... you know, Sherlock's wrath. Or yours."

"He hurt you. Abused you." John frowned. "How can you forgive him?"

She stared at the ceiling. "Eight years ago, the two of us were on a mission. We were undercover in a drugs crew, and they thought Oliver was holding back money. They asked me to punish him. I broke his arm in two places and three of his ribs. I took him to the hospital and he took me for ice cream after. He told me- he said it didn't matter. I might need to hurt him, more than once, for the job. But one day, he might have to hurt me back."

"But it wasn't for a job!" John protested. "He hurt you in a drunk rage!"

"He pulled me through the past six years." She admitted. "Every time things got tough, he'd show up, he or Sherlock. He kept me- roughly as insane as I was going in."

"That wasn't him, though." John swallowed. He kind of understood what she was talking about, but his doctor's brain told him that her reasoning was bollocks. She might _feel_ like he'd come and helped her through desperate times, it was just her brain conjuring up anything to keep her going. "You know it wasn't him." At least, he hoped she knew that, realised that they weren't the same person. She stayed silent, so he continued. "You have a serious mental condition that affects your perception of the world." He stated, switching into his doctor role. "It's normal for people with your... condition to have a slightly altered perception of situations and people. Are you sure-"

"Oh, for _goodness_ sake!" She yelled, trying to sit up before falling back with a hiss. "Stop calling it a _condition_." She glared at him. "It's a mental illness, one I've lived with for my entire life. It's chronic, not _terminal_. Stop treating me with kiddie gloves!" She huffed. "Besides, I _know_ Oliver. I've known him for _years_ , even before I left. The moment he landed the first punch, the moment he got sober enough to think about it, he hated himself for what he's done. It's why he got drunk again."

John thought about it for a moment. "Does he have a history of alcohol abuse?" He asked, thinking of Harry, the way she'd plummeted when Clara left her.

"He's had moments." She nodded. "But no more than the average British male. He's not an alcoholic."

John shrugged. "If you say so." He sighed. "You know, my mother-"

"He's not an alcoholic!" She snarled. "You don't _know him_! You have no right to judge, _doctor_! Don't you think I _know_ what you did after my brother disappeared? Don't you think Mycroft kept tabs on you while Sherlock was gone? I _know_. I _know_ how you spent your days in the pub, _I know_ you were well on your way down the road your father and sister took before Mary came into your life." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You have no _bloody_ right, _Doctor Watson._ "

John sat stunned for a long minute. Then, he swallowed, finding his voice again. "You can be terrifying, sometimes." He swallowed again.

"She has that from Mummy's side of the family." Mycroft drawled from the doorway. He moved into the room, scanning his little sister briefly. "You look terrible."

"I'm fine." She glared at him. "Better than yesterday, and the day before." She gestured to the free chair, and the diplomat seated himself. "Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft pulled a face. "He insisted on coffee." His sneer seemed as if the wait for coffee meant the beginning of the apocalypse. He glared at his sister, trying to pull her apart with his eyes. "Why did you have us called here?"

"We need to talk." She swallowed and stared at the blanket over her legs, registering the familiar footsteps nearing her room. "And this is the _bad_ version of that sentence. The kind where you sit down together on a park bench on a cold January morning to decide it's all over, not the-" She scraped her throat. "Not the good kind." She looked up briefly as Sherlock came in, offering him a brief smile before she looked down again, focussing on the words swirling around in her head and trying to bring them out coherently. After a deep breath, she decided to just plunge.

"It's Mary."

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock's mouth turned down, and John looked grimly confused.

"Agai-"

She glared. "Mycroft, I swear, if you finish that, I will crawl out of this bed to personally strangle you." She growled, before turning to the good doctor. "I'm sorry, John. I wish it were different."

John's frown deepened. "What's going on?"

She took a deep breath. "Amelia is Mary. She's the one who shot me."

John's face darkened in understanding. "She's the one who-" He nearly choked, "- _sold you._ "

"More like lent me out." She frowned in thought. "But that's beside the point. The point is that Mary is officially an international criminal with serious charges awaiting her, and that she needs to be brought in _alive_. She will be trialled fairly according to all she's done."

Sherlock seemed like he wanted to jump up. "But-"

" _All she's done_." She repeated. "Including the quadruple attempted murder and the drugging and kidnapping of a valued agent." She turned to Mycroft, looking at him sternly. "I was informing you as your sister. Now I'm asking as your... _superior._ " The word seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth, "Bring her to me alive. As an international agent, I need to offer her a fair trial."

A light of understanding shone in her brother's eyes. "As a professional, you should." He almost smiled.

John scraped his throat, frowning. "Excuse me, I never asked... what _do_ you do?"

"Classified." She made an apologetic face. "Which reminds me... I need to talk to Oliver. We still need to build a case with the undercover op." That, and she wanted to hear his voice again, wanted to see the healthy complexion of his skin, rip open his shirt and make sure there were no major wounds hidden underneath.

_Fire. The smell of burning cloths, melted rubber. Hands scrambling frantically to expose. A chuckle. "I'm fine."_

_A glare. "Three thousand seven hundred and fourteen." She breathed._

_"What?" An amused frown. Silly._

_"Your freckles. Three thousand seven hundred and fourteen."_

_"Ah." That face. That smile. Pure sunlight. "And?"_

_Relief. "All accounted for." Smirk._

Something hit her shoulder and she blinked, coming back to the hospital room. "Sorry." She frowned. "Must've zoned out for a moment. You were saying?"

Her brothers looked thunderous. "Doe will _not_ get into Baker Street." Sherlock snarled. "He will _not_ get his _filthy hands-_ "

"Then I'll meet him somewhere else." She challenged him with a hard stare. "I am an adult, whether you'd like to admit it or not. I have a job to do, responsibilities to fulfil. I even used to have a social life, and Oliver was a big part in that all. I will meet him again, with or without your permission." She was silent for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "You guys should get Min, let her and her dad stay safely at Baker street for now. It'll be easier to keep one location safe."

John nodded, liking how reasonable she sounded. A thought hit him, though. "What if she comes to the hospital?"

Her face turned dark, and she turned to face the window. "Somehow, I don't think she will."

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

Less than two weeks later, the doctors begrudgingly let her out of the hospital, but only if she promised to take it easy. She promised, fingers crossed behind her back. If anyone noticed, they didn't say.

Sherlock picked her up and called her a cab to Baker Street. They sat in a not-quite comfortable silence, right until she broke it.

"I'd forgive him anything." She admitted in a mutter. "He could be the one to pull the trigger and I'd forgive him."

"I wouldn't." The detective clenched his teeth. "He wouldn't."

She leaned her head against the window, eyes closing. "He's family."

"I know." His hand snuck through the space between them, covered her much smaller one.

She sighed. "We're a mess."

He gave her a little squeeze. _I know_.

The cab arrived at Baker Street, and she climbed out of it herself, ignoring Sherlock as he paid the fare. Scanning the street almost without realising it, she noticed all the little off things. A curtain moving at the first floor a block away, a shadow just outside the darkness of the alleys, a homeless man wearing new Puma trainers. She filed it, not sure if it was Mycroft's doing. She hoped her brother at least had the mental capacity to shop at Oxfam if he needed disguises.

She made her slow but independent way up the stairs to meet the doctor and his daughter at the top. He looked slightly thunderous.

"You shouldn't exert yourself like that." He berated, holding Minnie against his shoulder.

She shrugged. "I know my limits, doc. Don't worry." She moved to where her brother had stacked the newspapers and rummaged through them. "Not my first rodeo."

"You're still recovering from your _last_ rodeo!" At his outburst, his daughter whimpered. John patted her back soothingly. "The hospital called, by the way. You left your medication there."

"Of course I did, I- Why do they have your number?" She frowned at him as she slouched on the couch. Her abdomen ached, but there was enough sedative left from the hospital to make it bearable. "Never mind." She closed her eyes, blocking out the world. "Something tells me the meds will appear before they're needed."

Sherlock chuckled, hanging his coat in its designated place. "You shouldn't trust Mycroft to keep you medicated."

She opened one eye, peering at her brother. "I'm not." A small smirk played on her lips. "I just won't need the pills until I get them."

Her brother rolled his eyes. "You're mad."

"Clinically and legally insane." She supplied with a smirk. "Completely bonkers."

"That isn't an excuse for everything."

"It is in court." She followed the doctor as he moved around the room with his daughter, then let her head fall back. John Watson was a good father, a well-trained caretaker. He'd protect that little creature with his life, if he had to. He'd smile at her and teach her to laugh, to grab and let go, to stand on her feet. He'd love her, more than her mother would, more than the witch ever could. The little girl would grow up happy, with a doting father and an intelligent uncle. Or maybe step-something. But really, that wasn't her business. The most important thing was that they were all safe.

She was safe.

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

The cards started a day after she came from the hospital, almost as if someone was watching her, knew exactly where she was. The first one was of Paris, of the Eiffel Tower at winter time, with a single word scrawled on the back in black ink.

_Remember?_

When she saw the letters, diagonally placed over the empty address lines, all she could do was smile wistfully.

_Coffee. Yellow light streaming through the window of the bakery._

_"Pouvez-vous donner-moi une pain longe, s'il vous plaît?"_

_Chuckle. "You are full of surprises."_

_Eye-roll. "You're an uncultured swine."_

The postcards kept coming, day after day, bearing old memories of treasured adventures every time, until on the seventh day, an envelope arrived, titled _Snow_. She opened it in the living room, with mildly trembling hands, as Sherlock and John watched on grimly.

She unfolded the paper, frowned down at it. Turned it over in her hands, looked at it sideways, sniffed it. Showed it to the men. It was blank.

Sherlock frowned at it before digging though his pockets and producing a lighter. She moved it behind the paper, moving it back and forth in search for a secret message. There was nothing.

"It's an empty paper." John concluded, dryly. "Did he give up already?"

"I doubt it." Sherlock frowned at the sheet. "I don't think he knows how."

"No." She shook her head. "This is _sentiment_." She studied the envelope. "What it means, though... no idea."

"He wouldn't give you a riddle you can't solve." Sherlock reasoned. "You just need to _think_."

"Indeed." She moved to the couch and made herself comfortable in her thinking position. "I have a few years of data to go through. Tell me when there's tea."

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

_"Are you here for someone?"_

_"Actually, I'm here to deliver some papers for Mr Holmes."_

_"You're a bit young for a diplomat."_

_"I'm seventeen. You're a bit young for an MI5 agent."_

_An extended hand. "I'm Oliver." Smile. "Come on, I'll show you the way."_

_"Seventeen! You're back!" Smirk. "Bringing lunch for Mr Holmes again?"_

_Glare. "I don't know why he keeps asking me. He doesn't eat it, anyway."_

_Shrug. "Maybe he likes seeing you. I know I do."_

_Eye-roll. "Shut up. He just likes to make me run for him."_

_"You could just have lunch with me."_

_Chuckle. "I could, but I'm not having lunch."_

_"Chicken or ham?"_

_"Sorry?"_

_"Chicken or ham, Seventeen? It's a simple question."_

_"Chicken. I'm turning eighteen soon, you'll need a new nickname."_

_"Right." Smile. "How about Snow White?"_

_A roll of eyes. "I'm not exactly a fair, singing princess."_

_"It could be irony. Plus, you kind of look like her."_

_"No way. I forbid you from using that name."_

_"Of course_ you're _Holmes."_

_Quirk an eyebrow. "You're the idiot they paired me with for my first mission?"_

_Smirk. "Oliver Doe, at your service."_

_"No way I'm calling you Sir."_

_"Wasn't expecting you to. Come on, let me brief you."_

_Sigh. "Waiting is_ boring! _"_

_"Being bored is good for your brain. It prevents ADD, apparently."_

_Groan. "I can feel every single one of my neurons dying! How do you_ do _this?"_

_Chuckle. "Truth or dare?"_

_Glare. "That's a kids' game. Besides, there's nothing to dare me with."_

_Eye-roll. "Truth or truth, then?"_

_"All right. Me first. Sun or moon?"_

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

She came back to herself with a gasp, her vision swimming for a moment before her body adjusted to being awake, only to find Sherlock's shadow looming over her, her brother sitting nearby with a cup of tea. As she tried to sit up, John appeared at her side, offering her a mug.

"Did you solve it?"

She nodded, ignoring the tea and moving to stand, nearly keeling over in the process. "We have to hurry." She groaned as John caught her. "Mary Watson is in grave danger."

Sherlock sneered. "Good."

" _Sherlock_!" She glared at him, then glanced at John to see he was carrying a similar expression. "I don't _care_ what you two have talked about when I wasn't here, but it's my _job_ to give her a fair trial. No matter what we think of her." She shrugged on her coat. "Which means we have to find her before Oliver does."

"Wait, what?" John pushed the door closed as she was trying to leave. "What's he going to do to her? What was _in_ that letter?"

She stopped, turned to study him. "Actions speak louder than words."

"That's _it_?" Sherlock jumped up, irritated. " _I_ could've gotten _that_ from a blank piece of paper!"

"Maybe you're not as inexperienced with sentiment as you always say, then." She smirked at him. "So are you coming, or am I taking this one on alone?"

"No!" John pushed her back, as gently as the slightly-angry doctor could. "You're not going out there, chasing after some _psychopath_ -"

"-Whose life is in danger, _by the way_ -"

"-While you're still recovering from the last time she _shot_ you!" John was inches from her face, now, shouting at the top of his lungs. There was a sound from upstairs.

Sherlock moved closer, ready to pull his friend back. "John..."

"Not to mention how she used you, _sold_ you, and how she-"

He was interrupting by two phones going off simultaneously, Sherrin's with a text and Sherlock's with Lestrade's personalised ring tone. The detective stepped back to answer, and handed his sister her phone from where it had been on the coffee table. She took it without looking, staring the doctor down.

"Yes. ... Oh, _fuck_. ...Yes, I'm fine. ... They are. ...Yes, I will. I- Thank you." He hung up, sighing as he turned to the others.

Sherrin glanced at him. "They found Mary." She concluded., stepping back a bit to unlock her phone.

Sherlock nodded. "Shot. Clean though the head."

Sherrinford hummed, looking at the message. "Middle of the forehead, I bet." She showed the picture to the men. It was gritty, but it clearly showed a police car, and someone setting up police tape. John recognised the figure of the DI in a far corner, barely in frame.

"He's still at the crime scene." John realised. "He shot Mary, and he's still at the scene."

"He was, anyway." Sherrin moved past them both and sat down on the couch, typing. "He'll be long gone by now."

"So what do we do now?" John asked, confused as to why she sat down again. Sherrin turned to look at him, then tossed him the phone.

"Mary is gone." She stated. "Our primary concern is dealt with. The news will spread, and Mycroft will no doubt show up soon. Oliver will want to talk to me, too, so..." She lay down. "... We wait. Place bets on who gets here first."

John looked down at the phone screen. After the received photo, a single sentence was sent:

_Bring me the pig's heart._

~\\*/~\\*/~\\*/~

Mycroft arrived, barely ten minutes after Lestrade had called. He sauntered into the room casually, barely glancing at the people in the room before sitting himself down in John's chair, but even the doctor had picked up on the slight worry in his eyes as the diplomat had scanned them. He seemed to be reassured by their calm, though, and an heavy silence descended as he sat down, seemingly waiting for something.

Sherlock placed a five pound note near where John was making tea, and the doctor offered a small smile before pocketing the money.

Mycroft's and Sherrinford's watches ticked just out of sync, one following the other, the pauses more or less half a second each time.

John exhaled loudly as he served tea.

Upstairs, Min was just waking up from her nap, her eyes slowly opening, her garbles audible through the baby monitor Sherlock had set up some time before.

Downstairs, the front door opened. It's soft creak was loud in the silence, as were the silent steps that followed. Sherrin shot upright, slightly winching as the movement pulled on her recent wounds. Sherlock craned his neck, half-standing up from his chair, and Mycroft quirked his brow.

"Heavy tread." He drawled, as the person seemed to cross the short hallway below.

Sherlock stood, moved to stand behind the door. The first stair creaked. "The amount of footsteps suggest a big man, well over six feet..." The footsteps were at the top of the stairs now.

Sherrin rolled her eyes and pushed herself up as well, just as the person seemed to halt at the door. "It's Oliver, you _idiots._ "

John took his gun from where it had been waiting on a side table. The door opened, revealing a certain red-headed commander, dressed in a dark jumper and cargo pants, a black backpack slung over his shoulder, his hair tousled by the wind and his beard trimmed. He seemed small, for a military man who was over six feet tall and had a sniper rifle in his bag.

" _Snow_." His face crumpled and he fell to his knees at the doorstep. "I-" He sighed, hung his head. Ignored the glares the Holmes brothers gave him, and the gun John held ready to train at his head. "Snow."

Without thinking, she moved forward, stepping close enough for him to reach out and touch her if he wanted. He didn't, though. "Snow. I owe you every apology in the world. I never should've left you alone and what I did upon your return was completely unforgivable. Never in a million lives can I repay the debts I built with you, and-"

"Shut up." She broke him off, gentle. "You don't need all this drama. They're not going to kill you."

He looked up at her, his eyes red. "I really _am_ sorry." He stated, a weak, relieved smile on his lips.

She rolled her eyes. "I know. You mentioned." She smiled back at him. "Come on, stand. John will make you tea." She glared at the man, and the doctor moved to the kitchen, grumbling, handing his gun to Sherlock on the way. The detective trained it on the kneeling man grimly.

Oliver took a moment to react, but eventually hoisted himself up to his full height, looking down at his partner. "I-"

"Oh, _do_ shut up." Mycroft had stood, twirling his umbrella as he glared at the man. "No matter how touching this _reunion_ is, we must be going. Your disposing of Ms. Amelia has caused a great deal of paperwork we must take care of."

Oliver frowned at him, a glint of something like amusement in his eyes. "Are you going to torture me before you kill me?" He asked, "Or are you just going to give me to the Russians, have me kidnapped and make me disappear?" He walked into the room a bit further, standing between Sherrinford and her brothers. He didn't sound upset, more matter-of-fact than anything.

Sherlock scoffed. "Unfortunately, he can't." He growled, "Sherrin officially outranks all of us."

"Though I'm sure she'll cooperate if we ask Mummy." Mycroft added dryly. "Sadly, I don't have an evil scheme to get rid of you. The Russians refused to put in the effort."

Sherrin hummed. "You'd make good leverage, but I doubt they'd want to be on our bad side."

A dark smirk formed on the big guy's face. "Our bad side tends to be slightly... lethal."

"That reminds me." John came over, letting the tea seep in the kitchen, and without warning slammed his fist in Oliver's stomach. The man doubled over, and John pulled him to himself by his red hair. "You killed my _wife_ , you bastard." He hissed, growling.

Oliver coughed. "She wasn't a very good wife."

"She was _mine_." John growled, still right up in his face.

Oliver straightened, casually pulling himself free. "She hurt mine." He stated, voice ice cold and devoid of all emotion. "She _shot-_ She- She had no right to go on." He turned to the Holmes brothers, face impassive. "I apologise for what happened, but I'm not here to work, so _please_ ," he quirked a brow at the gun pointed at him, "lower that thing and allow me to talk to your sister."

Sherlock lowered the gun, keeping it at the ready just in case, and Oliver turned back to his partner. "Please tell me you want to talk."

Sherrin sighed, moved to the coffee table where the empty letter lay. "Tell me what you meant by this." She asked, demanded.

He shrugged. "Actions speak louder than words." He stated. "I thought it was obvious, after what I just did."

"No." She narrowed her eyes at him, waved the paper at him. " _Tell_ _me_ , Oliver." She took a deep breath, shaking her head. "Please, tell me. Not them, not the bureaucratic arseholes up top, not the idiot detectives. Tell _me._ I need to-" She choked. "I need to hear it from the _real_ you."

Oliver inhaled, as if John had dealt another blow, and stared at the woman -girl, almost, in his eyes- nearly falling apart in front of him. Eventually, he opened his mouth again, and the voice that came out of his mouth aligned perfectly with the sounds of the memory playing back in the back of her brain.

"I ran out of words a long time ago when it comes to dealing with you." He spoke, a small smile threatening to play at his lips. "You are an enigma, and every day, every moment I've spent with you has been a never-ending mystery and an amazing puzzle, and it's been an amazing gift."

_He sat on his knees, bound, in a two-piece suit, his tie undone and his white shirt darkened by the blood flowing from his nose, his eyes red from unshed tears, his face more sincere that it'd been in any other role. "If this is where it ends for us, I just want to make sure you know I love you. I don't have the words to accurately describe the depth of the feelings I have for you, and those three don't even begin to cover anything close to them."_

He reached out to Grab her shoulders, making her look up at him. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, or with you. No mountain I wouldn't scale, no giant I wouldn't fight."

 _He spit and coughed, blood running down his chin. "And I_ know, deep _down, that you'd do the same in a heartbeat. You have_ proven _it time and time again in your own wonderful way_ , because you're _wonderful and amazing, and I'm sure you forget it more often than you admit to me, or to anyone." A sad smile passed his face. "It's ridiculous, because_ you're the sunshine _that can_ defrost even the _coldest_ heart. And if this is the end of us, whether because _they put a bullet in that wonderful brain of yours after they're done with me, or because_ _you get to_ walk away and we can never see each other again, I just want you to know that you're amazing and that I care for you infinitely." Tears were escaping from his eyes, just a few, as he smiled down at her. "I just want that to be the last thing you hear, just in case."

She lurched forward and pulled the big man into a hug, wiping her eyes on his shirt. She tried to utter a _thank you_ , or _I'm not going anywhere_ , but no sounds could push their way past the lump in her throat. She opened her mouth to let him know, but only a sob came out, and then another, and another. Oliver pulled her closer, crushed her against him as she let the emotional turmoil, locked away for months, _years_ , flow out like a tsunami.

The other three looked on, stunned. Sherlock placed the gun on the coffee table.

John moved closer to covertly talk to the two. "Quite a change." He noted, glancing at the gun before turning to the hugging two. They almost looked like they belonged there, his body engulfing her fully. It was a difference like night and day from the man that had stormed into the flat and beaten her to a pulp, If this was how he was usually, he could understand why she liked him so much.

"Quite." Sherlock agreed, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "He's not drunk this time."

 

Eventually, she managed to pull away a little, looking up at him through the tears still streaming down her face. He raised his hand, wiping away the tear tracks with his sleeve. "Hey."

She bit her lip. "Hey." She sniffed, collecting herself a bit, and stepped away from him, his hands sliding down her arms and locking on her wrists gently. "You broke roughly seventy rules and regulations and laws the past years."

He winched. "I know."

"Now, for your punishment..." She allowed a mischievous smirk to break though and glanced at her eldest brother. "... I'd let you do Mycroft's paperwork, but that doesn't seem proportional, so... babysitting."

Oliver smirked, catching on. "Babysitting."

"Yup." The smirk was fully consuming her face, now. "You get to babysit and rehabilitate a deranged, clinically insane agent who has two-" She glanced at the others, "-and a half protective brothers, a probable case of post-traumatic stress, and a severe tendency to skip sleep."

Sherlock huffed. "It doesn't seem like punishment." He mumbled.

Oliver chuckled, not breaking her gaze. "I hear her brother is a basket case, as well. Completely bonkers."

"I _can_ still shoot you."

A cry from upstairs startled them all, and John jumped into action. Oliver stepped away from her, letting him pass to the stairs, and turned to look at the others.

"I really hope we can leave this behind us." He looked at Mycroft, mostly, and the diplomat looked down at his umbrella.

"You're good for her." He admitted. "Even with all that's happened."

"Just make sure it doesn't happen again." Sherlock added, too casual to not be serious. Oliver nodded.

"You too, Holmes." And with the way he was looking at the detective, they both knew what he meant.

 

Sherrinford was putting  on her coat as John came downstairs with Minnie. "You leaving?" He asked, surprised. "Already?"

She nodded, looked around the room. The dust had settled, mostly, and Sherlock was pouring over a case file while Mycroft was tapping away on his phone. Oliver was stacking a laptop and some other things in his bag, preparing to come with her. There had been a restored balance between the three, even though it was incredibly fragile and sure to break sometime soon, especially now a fourth man and a baby -and hopefully some romance- was thrown in the mix. They were at the edge of _something_ , teetering, and it would explode in their faces soon and hopefully something beautiful would arise from its ashes.

For now, though, she'd walk out that door, and Oliver would bring her somewhere she could call _home_ and she'd be able to sleep and when she'd wake up, he'd still be there, and Sherlock would still be here, in Baker Street. It was nowhere near perfect, or even _good_ , but they were on the track back up, and that would be enough. They were all broken, but they could piece each other back together again.

It would be a totally different kind of adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And that's the end of it! Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Now that this is finished, I can move on to projects incorporating S4 :D  
>  If you have any ideas for other stories or commentary or if you just want to say hi, please leave a comment or come find me on my [Tumblr](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) or my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/blazeriddle)!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought of it! For any questions or prompts or ideas, feel free to leave a comment, go to my [Tumblr askbox](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) or swish by my [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/blazeriddle) to leave a message!


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